A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
A hippie sings his heart out
in front of Christ Church, Oxford,
his voice out of tune with
his out of tune guitar.
Our guide, beer on his breath
at ten o’clock in the morning,
says in his best Queen’s English,
“Good thing Old God doesn’t
have to listen to that.”
Forty years later this sets off
God can choose. He can
tune out, tune in, drop out.
In the beginning was the word
which my histrionic Lacanian friends
took to mean that the structure of language
preceded the existence of the Supreme Being.
Old God must have chuckled at that.
Now Old God is post-temporal.
Everything, even this poem, is in the past.
There is no now that we can grasp:
it slips through our fingers
like water on an infant’s palm.
Even Old God is post-god,
absent at the moment
of his presence.
Copyright 2018 Charles Brice