DARK ANGEL

 

 

Now I the anti-Jacob night-long lie

wrestling with my dark angel for my soul:

there is no hold he does not know—and I,

so subtly does he intertwine with mine

his limbs, so wreathe him close, I cannot breathe

but for his breathing.

Better like Isaac in the waste bound, blind,

Waiting the knife’s sure stroke should God provide

nothing, than wake to taste

the old salt of defeat and loss again....

Or might I by some grace be purified?

Ah no—from bed to wall I turn my face

and take another fall.

 

 

Note: This is one of my earliest attempts to achieve “significance,” albeit autobiographical. It dates from the 1960s. At that time I had not overcome the influence of the archaic language of the literature of the 16^th through 19^th centuries in which I had immersed myself. In this case the inverted syntax expresses in part the conceit. Some readers might discern the influence of G. M. Hopkins as well as that of earlier poets.