I.
You, who turn the Earth so it can
learn the sun’s heat, you are
acquainted with the stones’ grating song,
you also rub dignity into the spine
of the lolling, recumbent hills;
You, who with careful hands, stir up
the base of the sky so birds can soar
freely on the waves of the wind;
You, who, to keep the soil warm,
melt with your breath the rocks
under the crust, you strike pines
with lightning to teach them
humility, you know what the flames
crackle and mutter, one to the other;
You, who speak the waters’ babble,
who know the springs’ fresh chuckle and gush
who sieve short showers out of the clouds,
to cool the migrating buffalo, and who
call the sea-trenches by name;
To You I plead!
II:
Be merciful to the titterers and the unworthy,
forgiving to the lechers and the strutters,
Do not become angry with compulsive achievers,
the peddlers of desire and the honey-tongued prophets.
Be forbearing towards them, and wink at their hurtling,
for they too are defenceless and fallen.
And also forgive us, who to keep
our heads above the swelling waters must
cling to the last twig of shame, because
what would people say, if we let go.
Forgive us, who from time to time
twist the night tightly about us and
sweat toxins and scorching stars.
Forgive us who seek love adrift
on the froth of dubious beers, for as
often as we discover it, it dissolves
into nausea, migraine and nervous tension,
and burns the words from our tongues
leaving us without a word of farewell
and tossing with frustration.
Forgive us, who overwatered
the promises we were gifted,
but still guard them zealously
in hopes they’ll revive.
Forgive us, who were herded with blandishments
into the Land of Possibilities, then found
the borders closed behind us,
our documents confiscated, and who, as
the embassy building was burnt down
around us were told only, “We believe in you,
you can do it!”
And, I implore you, forgive the boomers
whose lungs were encrusted with
Iron Curtain dust long before
they inherited this land, who had
the scalding condensate of freedom
thrown in their faces;
Who, still learning to swim, bit on
the first hook, till cynicism swelled them
to pufferfish. Their dreams then
privatised, they drove themselves
hard, atoning through work, fleeing
the threat of their own feelings;
And who became so accustomed
to finding what lay beyond bars was
merely more bars, that long before their
release back into the reservation, their survival
instinct had died.
Forgive the chocolate-scented
angels whose halos blind
even the purest of eyes, and who
someday soon will in fact bulldoze
the earth and leave it flat.
And forgive me too, for I am descended
from all of these, I sit beside chairs
in just the same way
and have nothing to do with any of them.
And forgive me for loving them with
biting bitterness and humble devotion,
I love them, I love them all!
III.
Neat-bearded hipsters, your arms
inked black with nighttime forests,
sipping like connoisseurs
at your craft beers, I love you all!
Tuberose-scented divas, discussing
self-esteem in the gym each morning,
then dining on hamburgers
with a knife and fork, I love you!
You tofu-recipe-posting neo-Marxist
arts students, with your satchel of
deconstruction always on your shoulder, who
could make yourself homes in ever more memes,
and you dads, nomadic horsemen, twisting
in the saddle to shoot your bows, you dynasty-
founding Hungarian housewives,1 weeping at the
pharmacy and dreaming of home births. I love you!
You, who regularly slip away from company
to pick the snot out of your noses, so you
can finally get some air, and you, who fold
your clothes neatly before you have sex.
I love you!
You, who quake like the leaves of the aspen
at the word ‘foreigner,’ but teach Gypsy kids
from the end of the village to read and write,
and you, from whose throats broad-mindedness
bursts forth with such force it sets church bells
ringing, I love youl!
You, who bathe daily in anxiety
and never wash out the tub after,
and you who put every neighbour’s
house in order, just so you don’t
have to deal with your own, I love you!
You, who in ringing tones prophesy
love, fearing you are not worthy
of it, and you who, lest you be unmasked,
still insist you love, though your tongues
have been pierced by red-hot nails,
I love you!
You, who make sacrifices, and you
who are yourselves the sacrificial victim,
I love you!
You who have moved mountains out of
the way of truth, for it would crush
them to dust, and you, who’ve put electric
fences round a country’s worth of terrors, I love you!
You, who have passed on your wheel-broken dreams
like rickets to the bones of your descendants,
and you, who are not virtuous, just far too timid
to be wicked, I love, love, love you!
IV.
I pray for them all therefore.
For in me they live on, and I too
live on in each one of them.
Their names are my name, their land is
my land, their muteness my muteness.
I beg You, then, incline Your ear to us,
hear the words of our mouths, grant us
forgiveness and endeavour to love us,
as the earth loves the clods,
as flames the crackling,
as wingbeats the wind,
as white-crested waves the sea.