A Poem, March 2023




Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid.


Not on any map, the cities of Sarras, Monsalvat,

Where knights of the Temple meet

Who keep the roads to the holy places; yet

We know the twelve secret ones who serve

Their invisible Master are always on earth, somewhere,

Though none knows who they are: a Jewish beggar

In New York City may be the Messiah, unrecognized,

Martin Buber wrote; a French savant

In Iran; a wounded poet I have long known;

A Ute Indian; an Irish Carmelite monk in Kensington;

Some holy ‘stalker’ in Russia, or, who knows,

The man who made the film? My own father?

I cannot reach my count of twelve, but have sometimes felt

The brushing of a crimson archangel’s wing.


Kathleen Raine  (to David Gascoigne)




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