A single bulb over my shoulder
lamps the way I walk each morning,
cutting through black forests, dark waters,
crossing the long sword bridge to You.
Across and down the page I read
and write as on a moony isthmus
precipitous with abyss.
Yet my faith is in the beam
that holds me level and true
as I spiral down to the shore
where fish sing from silver waves.
My nacre’s carved from that faith
I was born from; it bears me
to every island of the dream
that archipelagoes a work,
this art of navigating heart:
A single beam of faintest pearl
to skein the surest path I know
through blackened roots and tangled ends
that moat this next blue float in You.
From Gaston Bachelard, The Poetics of Space:
In line with the distant light in the hermit’s hut, symbols of the man who keeps vigil, a rather large dossier of literary documentation on the poetry of houses could be studied from the single angle of the lamp that glows in the window. This image would have to be placed under one of the greatest theorems of the imagination of the world of light: Tout ce qui brille soit. (All that glows sees.) Rimbaud addressed in three syllables the following cosmic theorem: Nacre voit (Mother-of-pearl sees.) The lamp keeps vigil and therefore is vigilant. And the narrower the ray of light, the more penetrating its vigilance.