Birth Pangs

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 4/21/08

The concertmaster assembles the instruments,
Tuning them to the sun. Hammers, concrete, iron,
The bang and rumble of the builders, hoards
Of supplicants humming blue sky white.
So that we may gather, together, under the marble dome.
All over the world, hatchlings hungrily
Chatter in their nests, and roses are coaxed
Open by aspiring bees. These first chords
Announce to the assembled progenitors
That the monstrous primitive is deposed,
That the alligator in the spine of the politician
And the pope and the soldier has at last
Completely swallowed the soporific of flag
And crucifix and weapon, as the song
Of the blossoming human is espoused.
Now the symphony swings into its first, sweet feminine themes,
Embalming the sleeping reptiles in honied peace.
To hear such music, is to be the sun. It is to be,
For first time, under the porticoes of the temple,
Golden in golden light. It is to feel
The cacophony of the assembly — the pounding,
The hungers, the explosives — consumed in
The harmonious present. It is to sit, alone,
Among millions, in the center, enveloped
In the tent of that gaudy sari, silence,
And in that flowery wrapping, to be free.

Leave a Reply

You must be logged in to post a comment.