“Who, if I cried, would hear me among the angelic
orders? And even if one of them suddenly
pressed me against his heart, I should fade in the strength of his
stronger existence. For Beauty’s nothing
but beginning of Terror we’re still just able to bear,
and why we adore it so is because it serenely
disdains to destroy us.” ….Rainer Maria Rilke….
In the struggle
to pluck Beauty from the ether
and satisfy my soul’s longing for home,
I must open myself to the angels.
But all angels are terrible.
Their perfection is death
to all that is considered to be human.
Their beauty: fierce, pure, perfect, relentless,
burns with such brilliance
as to dismantle the fragility of Being.
We cannot be in Their presence
without crashing to our knees,
as beggars of the ubiquitous,
And when the moment has passed,
we are the condemned,
to plummet into all that is dark, cold and listless.
A vision of Beauty shows the rents in us,
the stunted, less than perfect, clumsy attempts
to clothe what we have seen
with shoddy words and paltry thoughts.
Copyright Niamh Clune 2013