The Gnosticism of the Greenhouse ~ by Lucy Simpson

Photo by Lucy Simpson

by Lucy Simpson

“I am perception and knowledge, uttering a Voice by means of thought. I am the real Voice. I cry out in everyone, and they recognize it (the voice), since a seed dwells in them.”
─ Nag Hammadi Library, Trimorphic Protennoia, translated by John D. Turner

Back in the garden of eden
when leaves were holy
every vein a beatitude

everything was possible
for these monkeys
for these little Hanumans

The light sang beneath the boughs
little fish shadows darting
and god walked in the garden
hands clasped behind his back
his snowy beard with ice crystals
from the sky

The little monkeys danced
and made him laugh thunder
The birds sang
for man had named them birds
and they were happy

Nature was not yet the battlefield
Darwin saw
not yet
The cacti wore silk needles
softer than baby’s hair

God said
Let there be night in the garden
and white mums echoed the moon’s
cratered bloom
Nightingales sang hosanna
in the garden

God felt good to warm up
to feel mud on his big toes
after the chill of the big sky

He sometimes wore breasts and vagina
when he was in the mood
The night sky was his silk kimono
the crescent moon, his diadem

He could be a baby
chubby and gurgling
He could be an old woman
with breasts like fish
He could be a young man
muscled and oiled
throwing the discus
of a gas nebula

Outside the garden of eden
the sun had thorns
and the little monkeys
shed their fur

Their evening walks
were through the valley of bones
the secret they learned
from the wrinkled elephants

God walks in the greenhouse
between blooms
between wood beams
He walks in the very cracks
of imperfect leaves
in the veins of petals
closing for the night

Lucy Simpson, Seattle, 10/2009

Last 5 posts by Guest Poet

Last 5 posts by Guest Poet