I was fishing in the deep pools where the big fish loiter,
When the sun came over the hill and shone upon the water.

The awakened waters broke into smiles bright as lances,
Like the love-lorn cowgirls at Krishna’s amorous glances.

I threw down my rod, on the best I had already feasted;
I would go to God’s table where the bread of love is tasted:

Where God himself fills everyone’s cup to the brim with sweet wine,
And the tales of lovers and heroes are told in measured line.

A man is not meant to labor and eat and sleep alone,
Still less to wrangle with others like dogs over a bone.

One may eat well alone or in company, and yet not dine;
But one can banquet on bread when there is song and wine—

When the secrets of love the gifted singer explores,
And the Master of love and song leads the applause.


The confidence in real experience in the last poem enables the poet now to indulge in the creative play of imagination. Poetry is part of a sacramental participation in life: searching the depths but called to celebration having awoken to the dazzling beauty of the reflections of the sun (Being) in the water. This as a communal celebration, a bread and wine communion, a sacrament where for Francis no priests are necessary.

The measure and control of the artist are part of the celebration. Art brings in the presence of the Master (as well no doubt, for Francis, concerts of music and song with Meher Baba).

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