It is Day 612 of the daily poems. Our poet Colin Pink has hit a wall.
On not being able to pray
In a dingy church in a foreign town, whose name
I’ve forgotten, I lit a candle; drawn by the flames,
even though I don’t believe, I lit a candle for you.
It must be the atmosphere of this place, a theatre
of holiness, diurnal rituals, that conjures a nugget
of faith, wrapped in hope, from my agnostic soul.
The stones around me are soaked in prayer. If I touch
them I feel the vibration of a holy longing preserved
within. Many lights gleam before the altar and spill
their tiny hopes onto an ugly metal tray. As pious
gestures go it’s easy, cheap, no wonder so many
set these small offerings, soon to be snuffed out.
All that’s left is a stubborn pool of cold candle grease.
Though I’d like to pray instead I turn my back and head
for the door into a brighter and harder light than before.
Colin Pink
from Colin Pink Typicity, published by Dempsey & Windle 2021