My god is a deep voice in the distance,
a chant, like a solitary hymn in a monastery
waking the bones of the dead. My god is a call to prayer,
a Turkish man that wakes at dawn,
when god is everywhere.
My god is a cremation, orange fire like the sun,
a woman I just met that knows me in a way only god could,
a table that lets me write the words that help me
understand the words I finally have in front of me,
the Balinese worker that looks at me, stands like a mango tree full of fruit.
God is the swimming pool at this hotel,
the water full of floating flowers, dead insects,
a lizard that has lost its way, unable to climb up the tiles,
the feeling of relief, cooled after walking hours
in the hot day. My god lives in the sunlit cloud
that comes out after black clouds pass
and the thunder ends. He is a raindrop, the shallow water
of a paddy, grey mud clumped in the fields, like the hard crust of a crocodile.
He is the waving palm, the flooded garden, the still flower,
the last clap of thunder that I did not expect,
that scares me. He is the swallow that returns,
swoops like it is born again.
My god shrieks, burns a wet field after rain
with the reflection of the sun, hides behind mountains,
draws buds out to dry as cloves, does not take sides in what I do,
rains on me whether I am ready or not.
My god is a white-bellied frog, in its throat the long sleep;
croaks at night, sinks into water, slows down, stills the air.
Ion Corcos has been published in Grey Sparrow Journal, Clear Poetry, Communion, The High Window and other journals. He is a Pushcart Prize nominee. Ion is a nature lover and a supporter of animal rights. He is currently travelling indefinitely with his partner, Lisa. Ion’s website is www.ioncorcos.wordpress.com