Monday, October 12, 2015

The Drinking Cup of History

Lidded mugs have spared our rich carpet
And kept lush heat in from harsh worldly winter,
Unless left overly long, like church tradition;

So ancient the quaffed cup of alleged meaning

Then the reeking stew of liquid
Fermented unleashes a pandoric
Malodor from her fuming stein

So reeking the decaying cup of alleged meaning

For thirty years of warred chaos
In the lostness of the 17th century
Where a third of Germany death-rots

So cruel, the lying lipped rims of alleged meaning

Still the mugs of spiritual history—those
Faces of the Cross, the Tree, and the Way--
Move us to drink from that oldest of Grails,

So bountiful the precious true vessel of real loving

Rather than from this modern beaker
Of negation, this shot-glass of hemlock
Where meaningless secular fate is drunk,

So shallow the present subjective tumbler without meaning

And self-will froths forth wafted up
From our instinctive goblet of choice,
Millions turned blood-dried like dead wine;

So empty the ever filled shot-glass of me and mine

Lost drunks/drinks the ‘night’s’ quest except to reduce
All to a brain-celled data cup or chip;
Don’t swig, don’t guzzle this modern
‘Ail’ from your plastic Laughlin tumbler

So shattered, blasted the bottle-wasted lack of meaning

But imbibe the true wined spirits of living;
Drink from that invisible grail of the Divine,
Drink of essential water turned to festive wine,
Water-brimming chalice so joyously overflowing.

So everlastingly full the living mug of true meaning.

by Daniel Wilcox

First published in different form in
Wild Violet Literary Magazine

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