somehow ray bradbury has found his way under my glasses..
two poems targeted my heart ~ bull's eye!
what i do is me - for that i came
for gerard manley hopkins
what i do is me - for that i came.
what i do is me!
for that i came into the world!
so said Gerard;
so said that gentle Manley Hopkins.
in his poetry and prose he saw the Fates that chose
him in genetics, then set him free to find his way
among the sly electric printings in his blood.
God thumbprints thee! he said.
within your hour of birth
he touches hand to brow, he whorls and softly stamps
the ridges and the symbols of his soul above your
but in that selfsame hour, full born and shouting
shocked pronouncements of one's birth,
in mirrored gaze of midwife, mother, doctor
see that Thumbprint fade and fall away in flesh
so, lost, erased, you seek a lifetime's days for it
and dig deep to find the sweet instructions there
put by when God first circuited and printed thee to
"go hence! do this! do that! do yet another thing!
this self is yours! be it!"
and what is that ?! you cry at hearthing breast,
is there no rest? no, only journeying to be yourself.
and even as the Birthmark vanishes, in seashell ear
now fading to a sigh, his last words send you in the
"not mother, father, grandfather are you.
be not another. be the self i signed you in your blood.
i swarm your flesh with you. seek that.
and, finding, be what no one else can be.
i leave you gifts of Fate most secret; find no other's Fate,
for if you do, no grave is deep enough for your despair
no country far enough to to hide your loss.
i circumnavigate each cell in you
your merest molecule is right and true.
look there for destinies indelible and fine
ten thousand futures share your blood each instant;
each drop of blood a cloned electric twin of you.
in merest wound on hand read replicas of what i
before your birth, then hid it in your heart.
no part of you that does not snug and hold and hide
the self that you will be if faith abide.
what you do is thee. for that i gave you birth.
be that. so be the only you that's truly you on earth."
dear Hopkins. gentle Manley. rare Gerard. fine
what we do is us. because of you. for that we came.
doing is being
doing is being.
to have done's not enough;
to stuff yourself with doing - that's the game.
to name yourself each hour by what's done,
to tabulate your time at sunset's gun
and find yourself in acts
you could not know before the facts
you wooed from secret self, which much needs wooing,
so doing brings it out,
kills doubt by simply jumping, rushing, running
forth to be
the now-discovered me.
to not do is to die,
or lie about and lie about the things
you just might do some day.
away with that!
tomorrow empty stays
if no man plays it into being
with his motioned way of seeing.
let your body lead your mind -
blood the guide dog to the blind;
so then pracice and rehearse
to find the heart-soul's universe,
knowing that by moving/seeing
proves for all time: doing's being!