SUNDAY'S HOUR
Comes Sunday's hour, and speech hangs itself
On God's red tree. Preacher, word-monger, I
Defy the interdict, naming dark Yahweh, taking Him
And His fire in vain. O havoc, cry havoc! Sigh
His deep blue breath into phrases and praises.
Still, it is impossible. He will not dwell half
Or anywhere in my capture. Yet I must draw home
The net, try to catch somehow His graces.
For it is by grace we live, and all the people
Must be told. So I could wish my body more
Contained Him, that my walks more shaped, here
And there, His amble. How ill beneath a steeple
I incarnate! Despite me, then, come now,
Let His enlightening strike us row by row.
(Arnold Kenseth, From Seasons and Sceneries, Windhover Press, 2002. Photo by Wilson Poole
I have very fond memories of Arnold Kenseth. He was my freshman English teacher at UMass in the 1961-62 school year. I last visited him in the early 1980's in South Amherst
ReplyDeleteKenneth W. Wood Jr
kwwood33@hotmail.com
Kenneth,
ReplyDeleteArnold was a wonderful man, a college classmate of my father, and my dear friend and colleague. I post his poems here from time to time.