Fall 2011 • Vol. XXXIII No. 4 PoetryOctober 1, 2011 |

Numinosum

At the threshold of the divine, how to know But indirectly, to hear the static as Pattern, to hear the ragtag white noise as song— No, not as song—but to intuit the song bird Within the thorn thicket—safe, hidden there. Every moment is not a time for song Or singing? Imagine a Buddha, handmade, Four meters high of compacted ash, the ash Remnants of joss sticks that incarnated prayer. With each footfall, the Buddha crumbles. Ash shifts. With each breath, the whole slowly disintegrates. To face it, we efface it with our presence. An infant will often turn away as if Not to see is the same as not being seen. There was fire, but God was not the fire. 

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Eric Pankey is the author of many collections of poetry, most recently Not Yet Transfigured (Orison Books, 2021). A chapbook called The Future Perfect: A Fugue is forthcoming from Tupelo Press. Pankey is the Heritage Chair in Writing at George Mason University.

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By Eric Pankey

At the threshold of the divine, how to know But indirectly, to hear the static as Pattern, to hear the ragtag white noise as song— No, not as song—but to […]

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