Made Music

January 29, 2021

Made music, Donne’s in Paradise, his race all run

Does he do better there than he did here in his

Great song

And share with others his bright diapason phrasing?

And nothing less for God and to His fitting praises

The eardrum of a poet is it lightly grazed

And interfered with – Heaven - from where comes

The likely words

And meddled with its figures sieved to claw down harmonies?

Or from the floor in backyard raids come forceful

All-grounded - lines?

No matter. That backyard, that floor, created entities,

Are come of God, of His amenity

The rigs by which rag things enrich are not our

Powers to see

We have ventured to have foretold them but only


I find my views well-muddied; they humiliate me

Way too free

My head is in a cloud of nonsense - disallowed conviction -

Upended and destroyed by just a smutch reality

One stitch dropped makes of metaphysic triviality

And facts come in collision, do they turn or change my tune?

Huh, what a fallacy!

Cracks rut and cut to ribbons, circumstances

Tear apart

Those inner core deductive ergo sum inventions

Of this heart

But when one tabs what happens, takes it be thy guide

To what a guy should do, and follow like a passive fashion

Ah, what a garbage bag of very wasted tattered passion!

I hang upon a hook - I put - let down from Heaven

The things of eyes are facts although they are not reason

The facts are always lies, and all the acts of men

Are trash and arrant treason

And gazing on them taking them as gospel..

No wonder it’s a world of differences and hate!

My comfort is in truth and in its proof of possibility

More: sure it shall be done, amen, and are The Promises

You cannot make good deals when men and terms

Are all dishonest

And so pass up the facts; get something much more

Plain and modest

Just ask; and it is given

No rocket-science, nothing fancy, nothing’s


In Love’s name Jesus Christ by whose advice I reckon

My calories and marbles and my breakfast

Eggs and bacon - are all shriven

A big ask, for oneself, but ask for all men

There’s no exclusion zone, no tariffs, no


No side delivery charges, no returns and no

Wells Fargo

A praying person ends always with what he wished for

The Chevrolet, the rubber duck, the Texas chainsaw,

Then what he does with it is his denouement.

All dreams are honoured, every wish made real

The mess we’re in confirms this is the actual radical deal

A trove which we deserve which is our heart’s desire

Until because we wished it, coming-to, passed

Through the fire

Out from the ashes Love stoops up, makes His repair

Our music on the earth is messy, mixed-up, ramblings

And few but of the best confess to Heaven’s high arm

Goes learning them with scribbles, passing out round notes

A sort of copying

Done like dictation through a soundboard in their bearing breasts

The guys who lose their soundboards do the making music best

Who give their tunes away and utterly; do worship

Who render up themselves, and all the things they have,

Are rendered

To compose, make poetry, in sculleries, in prisons

The Paraclete within them holds no reins, no planes, no prisms

No matter what their standings, what their means

Or their permissions

And Donne, half holy-one, was son and yet a sinner,

A reprobate he sang lasciviously as a beginner

His case was tried by song and stanza, tested in their terms,

He soon became undone

Then letting-go he made his plea, his peace with

The holy Heaven

Those sonnets of divinity, contrition, were God’s fruit,

And love his leaven