by Zoë Pollock
How is it we can’t accept this, that all trees were holy once,
That all light is altar light,
And floods us, day by day, and bids us, the air sheet lightning
To sit still and say nothing,
Here under the latches of Paradise?
After reading again all these writings, all these poets – the religious, the spiritual, the doubters, the non-believers like me – I believe we are all talking about the same thing. I believe that whether we write about god or the absence of god – if we write honestly – then we write about the greatest unattainable wish, the dream of the cave, the strange note sounded in the night that draws men to their death. We write of ultimate mystery and unknowable meaning. And what that is to each man? To each writer that wrestles with the problem? That might be religion indeed, for I have no better word for it.