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