Wednesday, January 15, 2014




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Six Poems by Neall Calvert

[ * There are currently 20 entries in this blog: essays,
articles and sets of poems on the mystical path.
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And if with tender heart I waken in a start
To that unfinished first love of my youth;
And if the moment I recall of pregnant hesitation
When two lips first knowing destination
Sent two souls resounding with
The celebration of it all . . . 

And if long-buried thoughts
Of fumblings fraught with manhood knot
Upon faint stirrings deep within me;
And if those years of awkwardness,
Of uncompleted passion, fears
Of independence manifest as tears
That flow from dreaming adolescent eyes . . .

Its that at thirty-five Ive come alive
To agony and bliss, the drive
Of longing to be met; its that
Im back full circle to my youth,
And in this month of May
Feel that same surge of years away
To stand now where I stood then,
Feeling incomplete, and tender, once again.

[Published in The Mens Journal, Winter 1985 / 86, Woodacre, CA]




How many days . . . months . . . years
did the boy in the house, at 5 pm,
hear crunching on the driveway gravel, tires
of the father’s car, and feel gladness— 
Dad’s home!—and wait
for his name to be called and a smile,
perhaps today a hug or playtime—
and wait . . . and wait . . . and wait . . .

And how long, during the murderous
Bolshevik Revolution and in their years 
of internment awaiting passage
to Canada, did ten-year-old Dad 
wait for the same from his 
sixty-year-old father? . . .

The cause of adult depression 
lies no farther away 
than chronic


In their garden, Mother kneels to join
the entranced little boy; the tiny slithering snail
will also move into maturity.



Like an unconscious hippopotamus,
With fixed religious attitude, heavy
And significant biblical stories, the sombre mother
Sits on her son’s innocence and naturalness,
Till the child’s spine bends with the weight.

Betrayed in his love, he makes companions
Of hopelessness and despair, and almost loses
                                          the path of his own star.















Who speaks for the child? Who speaks
for the child in me
for soaring imagination,
impulse and whim? Who speaks
for the child
s freedom from straitjacketing
religious conformity? Who speaks
for the silly, spontaneous adult child
carving his name in letters two feet high
in snowbanks atop a mountain?

Who speaks for the child in you and me
if not you and me? And if not now, when?
For now is the time of the child.
In precious seconds of present time
like an effervescent fountain it lives,
and this is either accepted, understood deeply,
or the child gives up and becomes another
stunted, half-dead adult who must be born again
. . . and again . . . and again . . .
until it awakens and can claim
its soul-contract victories.






















Feeling ashamed and worthless as a child
Before the immense punishing power
Of a wrathful, arbitrary God / father
I put my essence far away—
So deep inside even
I couldn’t find me.

I left home but I was young—a child—
What could I do? I wandered
In a strange forest world.

Today, as a six-foot adult child, having searched
And having found myself deep in a wood, I rage—
To cover the fear I may not be strong enough
To protect you, indomitable boy of mine.
Let me now communicate with you;
Let me remember that as an adult
I can now protect, nourish, parent, love you,
Bright little one in me—
for who else
Could do it so well? . . .

Suddenly I know I have merely forgotten
The way home—I
am home; I am found.
O wonder boy!
O more wondrous Protector / Father—
Not unreachable in heaven now but in me:
Father and son as one!
I celebrate my new, spiritual family.

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