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      The Sunrise Liturgy

      A Poem Sequence

      Mia Anderson

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      The Sunrise Liturgy

      A Poem Sequence

      Copyright © 2012 Mia Anderson. All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical publications or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher. Write: Permissions, Wipf and Stock Publishers, 199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3, Eugene, OR 97401.

      Wipf & Stock

      An Imprint of Wipf and Stock Publishers

      199 W. 8th Ave., Suite 3

      Eugene, OR 97401

      www.wipfandstock.com

      ISBN 13: 978-1-62032-016-7

      EISBN 13: 978-1-4982-7055-7

      Manufactured in the U.S.A.

      Cover Photo © Mia Anderson.

      for Tom, twin, always

      and for Rowan

      Caveat lector

      Over and over.

      You have entered this life?

      Be warned.

      Over and over the sun.

      You grew up perhaps

      with the cow [jumped]

      over the moon.

      This is different. Here you will find

      the sunrise liturgy.

      Here you will find things repeating themselves.

      Even first times repeat themselves

      as first times.

      You think all this

      iterating iteration is a version of

      hell? It is heaven

      for those for whom it is heaven.

      Things don’t come clearer.

      We are two species

      the hell species and the heaven species.

      I don’t say we can’t inhabit both.

      We have dual citizenship.

      I just wanted to warn you.

      This is the sunrise liturgy and mostly it is heaven.

      This is for those for whom it is heaven.

      Readable but not read

      Dayspring : you before

      at spring of day, at first

      jump of sun using the horizon as a spring-board.

      Or the spring-board itself.

      Or an invite to a Jump-Up.

      Or day’s season of beginnings — daily freshening source

      of wave or particle.

      ‘The night has passed and the day lies open before us….’

      Start of every morning. Day like a book flat on its spine

      pages to left of you pages to right

      wide

      open

      readable but not read.

      A slice of horizon with a lid of sky on a plate of water

      le fleuve, ever-moving, flowing towards

      the read pages, away

      from the unread

      ever-passing, time’s model.

      Your eye, reading. Horizon a blink

      the far shore the eye-lid with its lashes, the near shore the lower lashes

      you the pupil in the middle

      at your paedeia, scanning, duty at its delight the Other Book before, learner

      with your beginner’s licence, blink, and the colour has changed

      like a carousel of old-fashioned slides, blink, and the flame

      has gone rose, the rose peach, the peach

      gold, the gold ivory and luminous cream, and then —

      Brother Sun has sprung

      pop-up jack-in-the-biodegradable-box of night

      coming up from down-under

      gasping for air as he clears the watery fleuve.

      The people that walked in darkness, or stumbled from bed to bath or

      wandered sleepless groping for texts like capsules

      have seen a great light, Brother Sun leaping like a Lord

      the sun of righteousness arising

      my! — but

      that Charles Wesley could sing!

      ‘Christ, whose glory fills the skies’ can you hear the tune?

      ‘Dayspring

      from on high, be near;/ Day-star,

      in my heart appear.’

      Almost 200 years of it flowing by

      no one dipping in the same tune twice

      the same always anew.

      Like the light.

      Liturgy : the solemn procession

      of numinous vapour off the fleuve festooning the minus 35 degrees

      as it glides downstream

      an armada dedicated to self-annihilation

      in the Sol Glorianus :

      Christ whose glory fills the skies, Light from Light.

      Dayspring : the time of first take on ‘the fair glory’

      linking the light within with the light without.

      The people who walked without light

      have seen a great light.

      And eaten it

      with their eyes.

      Day within.

      How dawn

      Look. Look. You see?

      — how dawn

      like a benign flesh-eating disease

      invades the shrinking dark,

      devours.

      The dark shrinks, cowers

      behind small objects,

      huddles, hurls itself

      away from tall trees, the lawn’s

      a line-up of escapees.

      It does no good.

      Like Mr Todd.

      The sun will trump you every time, Mr

      Wind-Who-Would blow Todd’s coat off.

      It doesn’t work that way.

      Sun beams, it

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