I guess I have a deficiency. God never
said boo to me when as a boy I stood
straining in church with muscular endeavor
for the sweet squirt of salvation. I never could
see why He spoke to this or that old lady,
sending her, hallelujah, down the aisle.
Was I alone in the congregation vile?
Or was their claim of spirit something shady?
And now when I read poets who simply Know,
drinking their imagery from God’s own cup,
whose poems "just come," and then, like Topsy, grow,
whereas I always have to make them up,
with never a tremor saying Break this line
or Save this phrase, regardless of its beat,
hear no obscurities which seem Divine,
and, knowing not God’s measure, still count feet,
I yearn that reason give me some relief
(besides those lapses when my mind, not soul,
is not so much inspired as out of control).
Non-linear God, help Thou my unbelief!
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (The Unchosen by Judson Jerome )
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
William Ernest Henley
- My Gown Of Dust, Rex mayor Ubini
- Dear God, Tara Stano
- Importance Of Nothing, RoseAnn V. Shawiak
- falling dead, Afrodita Alkline
- Monsoon Showers, Jaipal Singh
- My legs and my hands, gajanan mishra
- Perfectly Imperfect Poetry, Marvin Brato Sr
- Hands Thrown Up, I Am Krakatoa
- The truth about lies, kelvin alexander
- Many Men, Afrodita Alkline