I, more stolidly, tend to suspect
that God is a novelist —
a garrulous and deeply
unwholesome one too.
– Martin Amis
As a novelist, you say,
you have the powers
of a god,
the death and life
of characters
in your potent, scribing hand –
deciding who is loved
and who survives,
who is buried
or burnt to ash,
strewn into the Ganges,
perhaps,
or left to rest
in a marble urn
over a family’s
fireplace.
Piddling details
aside,
let’s promote the poet
to the omnipotent Lord of yore,
a God unmatched by others,
mould the world
to what it really should have been
(from the start of Genesis),
when the Spirit hovered
over the waters’ face;
make a Pangaea
that never splits,
do away with all division,
trim the claws of carnivores,
let the lions chew the grapes
of flowered fields,
and if that's deemed exorbitant,
at least allow your hero
the saving kiss of his belovѐd –
do not let him
drink himself
to a shrivelled, pitied state,
nor allow his neck
to fit into
your frayed and knotted noose;
show the mercy you believe
you never got,
show the dead
and deities
how it could have been much better
(if only you
had been in charge),
and do not await a Messiah’s
return
to get the work that’s needed
done –
do it now
and do it quickly,
in the loving,
triune lines
of your haiku.
Andreas Gripp
RF Image
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