Nefesh
Nefesh
Carter Davis Johnson
Behold, a whirlwind
on the cuff of the dawn,
perched like some great talon on the
fluted fingers of a cosmic bird.
The whirlwind,
reeling in dark and impenetrable fog,
approaches across the void.
Tongues of fire
anoint its presence
with unutterable language.
The violent and brilliant exposure
lifts the obfuscating veil
of stone-drenched mist,
revealing,
but for a moment,
dimensions of translucent
cloud.
The wind shakes the unmade world
in tumultuous howls of
esoteric rhythm.
Creatures,
filled with wind,
descend with the clarity of dream,
constantly moving
along the vectors of invisible
exhalation.
Each is covered with
a million irises,
kaleidoscope of eyes.
What do they see?
Rushing spinning wheels,
flying, across inside beside.
Eyes Eyes Eyes.
What do they see?
Royal harbingers;
their alabaster lungs
palpitate in unison,
heaving rolling declarations,
expanding like diffused fragrance.
Aloud aloud aloud.
What do they say?
Not a question to hang
on human tongues.
Unspeakable,
the bottom torn
from under every scrawling letter.
No. Enough.
The whirlwind descends
like a granite mountain;
its vaporous muscles
swallow,
envelope.
Inside, an expanse of polished pearl
emerges,
speckled with granules of meticulous
amazonite.
A melody of plane,
a silent roar,
a sonorous cartography,
rippling like fresh linen
that is stretched across the abyss,
blushing at the velvet fringes and tassels
of the cosmos.
Above the expanse
Above
Above
Above
A throne is suspended by nothing;
its foundation turning toward itself
for itself
to itself
with itself.
The reposing seat
is crafted according to
unknown volume.
Every curl and line,
like strings on David’s harp,
dictated by an
eternal chisel.
The stone is washed
in black fire opal,
deep and mesmerizing
bottomless opal.
Tremors, ocular waves
transmit its radiating brilliance,
holiness burning,
a constant distillation of light.
On the throne sits a figure,
whose glory reverberates
on His tremendous shoulders
like ringlets of hair, falling
in exulting locks of fire.
Reaching down,
the figure shapes the dust,
fashioning spontaneous form
from the edgeless,
drossless
nihilo.
He breathes:
a gust through fire and light
descends past the capped peaks
of glistening space,
shivering in the vigor of birth.
Planetary rings strike the belfry,
a solar orchestra
announcing the betrothal of dust
to breath.
Behold nefesh.
Behold the nexus of passion
and being
and self
and soul,
animation of dust by Pneuma.
Carter Davis Johnson
Writer & Scholar
Carter is a Ph.D. canidate at the University of Kentucky. In addition to his scholarly work, he is also a creative writer who has been published in The Society of Classical Poets, Road Not Taken, Flyover Country, and SteinbeckNow.
Photography by Ramiro Pianarosa