A poem from Anne Brassinga

To god

God almighty, I’d be well shot of you.

I love you not, nor do I love the word,

the now made flesh, well-kneaded, tender-simmered

meatball of fair poetry. All that would claim to truth

and fain be worshipped I’ll refute

until my tongue be parched. For I’m a wordwright,

I work holes and fissures tight, hammer bulkheads

against fate’s lightning strikes, sink nails

where your thunder threatens, and curse the wiles

of the deadly serpent that you send, oh God.

I shall stand there, face to face

when your dark mirror breaks; but as David

with his slingstone. As long as I last I’ll protect

my heart, the shaky stronghold at the ravine you are

so wondrously creating – by scoops of your hand.

I mark off world, resist all higher power

and thieving urge: you filch the dear lives constantly

of all those dear to me and those with whom I like to share

the rage at leaving, the taste of which you’ve put

way back in the first kiss – your death, your ash, your soot.

To hear the translation read, go to here.