Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

The sleep of a labouring man is sweet
whether he little or much has to eat—
so says the preacher in scripture enshrined. Sleep is my terror—my taste of defeat—
taste of my grave where awake’s incomplete
in an unconsciousness out of right mind. But I’ve known a friend who’s stood on his feet,
worked with the hands that I fold – it is meet
& right so to do – yes, and he’s been the kind he asked me, “Preacher, don’t you wanna rest?”

Delicate subject here, probably stepping on some toes, but that's one of the things poets are supposed to do. Zodiacally I'm a lion, but I'm ignorant of Leo the Great and so got lost between title and poem. In some places the syntax seems a bit awkward but it's your poem and might have been intentional. I do think I agree with this poets opinion of preachers' opining. jim

The nuns from Saint Leo's Catholic Church in their black witches habits used to scare me. When I saw them coming I would cross the street.

"The world revolves around the hand that writes" — Amos Oz

Writing is working with your hands. Not so?
You could always chisel your words in stone if you need to work up a sweat.

Forgive my damning fear, but what is blessed?

Forgive my damning vanity, but who's to bless and who's to blame?


Forgive my ramble.

I care about your poetic opines

'

Your work makes its point well without the necessity of being obscure or too intellectual. Your heart speaks well here with your mind at the side marking the words. Brilliant.


Sleep is my terror—my taste of defeat—
taste of my grave where awake’s incomplete
in an unconsciousness out of right mind.

(Like this a lot)

Damn, it's not easy being a preacher! With love and admiration, Joel -- Sue♥♥♥