Monday, August 14, 2017

Aristocracy of Spirit

Back when I was a cricket cricketeering
chirrup cheer-up chirrup!
I assumed in insectival innocence
an inner sense that there exists an aristocracy

which has no truck with densities of provenance
or centuries of family or fancy balls or noses
held up in disdain, to which the best souls
in the cosmos gladly train their hearts

and heads to pledge allegiance:
an aristocracy of spirit. You know it
when you’re near it. You recognize its members
when you are a member, too: there is no surer

proof of who is in this special realm.
No one’s lording her or his good fortune
over anyone who doesn’t have it; in fact,
quite otherwise: you subtly influence those souls

who never knew that in their deepest being
they belonged: and then, as when
I was a little cricket, suddenly they did.
The aristocracy of spirit blew its lid too long ago

for anyone to have the barest notion
of its genesis. But when the sis-boom-bah of it
resumes its generous hooray, attracting
every soul its way, we lose our thirst for herstory

and history. If we were a church, we’d be
the clerestory: windows looking out onto the sky.
Although thank heavens (if that’s whom to thank)
we’re not a church: that would be a lie.

The aristocracy of spirit likes to undermine
all solemn premises and tends when
in the presence of a vaulted arch to lurch away
and out into the bright and unimpeded day.

Unless it’s cloisonné.
Spiritual aristocrats
(why we cannot say)
slaver over cloisonné.


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