Improvisations
on Sacred Space
By Rudolph Lewis sacred
space is—hears but cannot be
spoken
Ours is no big sky montana
no meza bluff Colorado, there
ain’t no
allegheny or ny hills—no father
of waters.
Our sacred nottoway snakes muddy
from the western foothills,
empties
in the lowlands of eastern
Carolina,
home of runaways & jeremiah
seers.
Prophets of winds blowing, moaning
green pines whisper in our veiled
space
Bottom land and hilly sweet clay
whole & sanctified by Lord Tee
Jay.
He fathered generations like
Abe gaming in wilderness
swamps like Booze Island where
men made moonshine and cotton.
Sansee Swamp waters
run, bubble crisp as Miles’ horn
in Sketches of Spain,
brooding
but always fresh with catfish &
blues.
A ladder's in my
domain
of angels black as Kola Boof
swings
up & down for homeless souls
tired though unconquered.
Jerusalem steeped in hushed fantasies
where white frost commands,
sacrifices
crawling ants, mosquitoes singing
like hawks
leafy collards sweet &
tender
snows eaves
high
when George was 12 & Abe in
Illinois
fivescore before mlk was lost in
stone—
dreaming liberation from
reagan’s holiday
Religion was simple as bent knees
white robes sinking down in river
water—black
men
falling like great-rooted oaks
No plan in purple black sky of stars—no
treeless
plains like drought-ridden Darfur
black millions fleeing
No arabised muslims like creoles
everywhere
no abu grahib, military terror,
dogs snarling
No two-ness, no
dialectic like sun
& ice—servants in the sacred belly of
our mother
Only a cleansing flood of all life’s complexities
posted 2 July 2004 |