Metaphysical Prayer
Come to me as nameless, Lord –
and I to Thee!
come to me – I care not – as
the Brahman, Krishna, Buddha,
Adonai, Christ, Mohammed, Reason –
clothed, adored, despised,
in any of the names and forms
by which men know Thee or profess to know,
in the name of Whom they fight each other,
and thus deny Thy very self –
or as a nameless stranger, none of these -
come to me nameless, Lord –
and I to Thee..
come as One clothed in majesty;
come as a ragged beggar at my gate;
come clothed in shining white as Love;
come as a tempter full of hate;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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My wake, my funeral, my celebration
Death
could be full of surprises.
I'm not Irish; but if you were to do
the full Irish thing - take my corpse out of the coffin,
dance wildly round the room with it one by one -
it'd make my day;
I'd remember it all my, death
and I bet you would too.
Though perhaps the tango would be a bit too far.
The funeral:
the not-too-many invitations should say
'Dress code: happy'. That I'd really like to see.
So I'll be standing at the lych-gate
like a reporter from the local rag
checking you in.
But if you don't attend - that's OK. I wouldn't like to die
a hypocrite; there'll be plenty of folk I shall be meeting
whose funeral I didn't attend, believing as I do
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Apollo Is Alive and Well and Living in Suburbia...
Last night, a great lute-player
as full of enthusiasm for the power of music
and its history of the human heart
as far as history recedes, as I remember him
forty years ago before his fame had spread,
handed his lute around the dinner-table
as if we were at some christening party
for the eternal birth of eternal music
in the eternal present moment…
the lute shining like a promise
of things greater and unknown..
yet… not unknown to the eager heart...
made of several woods, matured
for around eight years; like pearwood,
the driest wood known; all nature
had conspired (as poets put it) ,
the trees had conferred together
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0019 Anniversary
Today, no looking back and no regrets;
but simply, celebration..
The world turns round with awesome force, and tilts;
its axis, lawful - merciful or cruel -
spins silently its thread which weaves our lives
and adds a number to our earthshaped days;
And here I’m much intrigued
by Indian thought – if never to be proved, alas –
that this same soul or self has solemnly laid down
by previous actions in our previous life
the screenplay of our present life and its precise and
tempting, daunting racecourse, steeplechase,
hard ground and hedges, fences, walls and waterjumps…
set down with glorious intent that we
transcending, lay down in our turn
a further life, and life, and life
so near a glory in ourself, eternity
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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0013 Sainthood via Automated Complaints
Living saints seem to be an endangered species
though nobody complains
so how about the ‘sustainable’ bit?
How To Be a Saint isn’t yet in that
expanding Idiot’s Guide series
however
there is a Path, a Way
right at the tips of your fingers
though have your blood pressure
checked first
automated complaints
and I’m sure I don’t need
to spell that out for you
the one that you can’t even get through to make;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Philosopher's Study
A very average room, in a standard terrace house:
the welcome sunlight- ruthless though -
truth itself come down to earth -
reveals that the windows
could be cleaner; yet,
could be dirtier;
shows up the gentle layer of dust –
gentle in its fall, not gentle in its mercy – and
not rising from the earth, but
falling invisibly over time
from the ceiling whose last decorator
used a paint less than the best;
who ever invited dust?
But here it is, inviting in its turn
a passing twinge of guilt; it could be
a metaphor for the philosophic:
dust the mind occasionally,
time brings complacency
and thoughts grow stale,
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Poets Are Holy Hypocrites
poets are holy hypocrites;
it’s their blessing and their curse.
they sit for as long as it takes
like terriers at a foxhole
or for second-best practice,
at a rabbit-hole,
totally still, alert, all their powers
poured into attention;
what a lesson dogs
are for humans
then – a movement in
their consciousness; it could be
anything creative – a film, a poem;
and with it comes the sense
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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You saw it here first...
Today the front page top spot in my upmarket morning paper
elbows aside war, crime, politics, famine, election bribes
with a manicured hand on an elegant arm, to bring you
the ultimate guide to your seduction scene or marriage-freshener -
the famous ball-player's plump chicken of a girlfriend
presented by Vogue, no less. Here is your Complete Jane Austen
Condensed Edition, the Jilly Cooper Omnibus, the Credo
from the Vatican of fashion. This is the stuff
that dreams are made on.
You'll need a chaise-longue to drape yourself on; and here
it's day-dress - of a sort; expensively revealing enough
to press all the buttons, but informal enough
to be ripped off; thus the zipped skirt, open
just above the panty-line, clearly awaits His pull.
The material of the blouse (I'm told it's silk-crepe) clings
as if it were but barely there; it's gathered slightly
between the breasts, just where (follow the dotted line) He
is invited to rip it. Or there's a loose tie below as well;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Medieval English Cathedral
Once I had this fanciful idea of recording
the silence in each great cathedral
and marketing these...
As you pull open the worn and squeaky door
there's a strange moment of apprehension as if
you're not sure what will greet you - a fullness
or an emptiness; a football-stadium roar
or a silence; an earfull of praise or
a mindfull of questions...
but the first step inside, and a silent gasp -
it's bigger inside than outside...
and the sound of your steps soars to the high
indescribably glorious roof like a
small bird looking for an escape.
so that you'd like to sing a note or two
to hear them repeated by those
invisible angels of the echo, waiting poised
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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Christmas butterfly
Perhaps it had arrived undercover
between the rich dark green leaves
of the organic cabbage which from
the huge holes in its tough outer leaves
had brought it up so lively – perhaps
reared in some protected warmth, mimicking
the months when ‘ small cabbage whites’
are supposed to live – July to September.
Or had it flown in or been shipped in
from some warmer clime?
Christmas Day – was that the kitchen ceiling light
about to go? No, it was a butterfly,
frantically circling round and round
the low-energy bulb, not hot enough
to make an Icarus of its daring; always
clockwise round the bulb, I thought;
palest green to grey to white; frenzied; delicate..
At night, the light switched off, it rested somewhere;
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poem by Michael Shepherd
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