Is he not over-charged by the dammed-up pressure of his own massive black blood
Luke, the Bull, the father of substance, the Providence Bull, after two thousand years?
Is he not over-full of offering, a vast, vast offer of himself
Which must be poured through so small a vent?
Too small a vent.
Let him remember his horns, then.
Seal up his forehead once more to a bastion,
Let it know nothing.
Let him charge like a mighty catapult on the red-cross flag, let him roar out challenge on the world
And throwing himself upon it, throw off the madness of his blood.
Let it be war.
And so it is war.
The bull of the proletariat has got his head down.
ST JOHN
John, oh John,
Thou honourable bird
Sun-peering eagle.
Taking a bird’s-eye view
Even of Calvary and Resurrection
Not to speak of Babylon’s whoredom.
High over the mild effulgence of the dove
Hung all the time, did we but know it, the all-knowing shadow
Of John’s great gold-barred eagle.
John knew all about it
Even the very beginning.
“In the beginning was the Word
And the Word was God
And the Word was with God.”