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A Saint About to Fall

Pictures at an Exhibitions

by Jimmy Jacobson

A Saint About to Fall

I can't remember the first two times, but I remember the third and last time that I ever cried. And it was because of this poem by Dylan Thomas. Strangely enough I am not sure how I was introduced to Thomas. I know all kinds of wonderful trivia about him. For instance, the musician Bob Zimmerman used Dylan's name as his stage name.

There are more flavors of tears than ice cream. I have rolled tears of joy upon my tongue and drank deeply of the tears of grief, but always from others. My tears have the sweet taste of understanding.

I don't understand this poem. Thomas's language is vivid like the serpent that slips underneath the pier and dives back into the depths. And my serpent quotes Thomas, saying "Heaven fell with his fall..." That is the reason I don't often read him. I know it messes me up on a real fundamental level. The last night I was alone, so I opened up the book and I began to read, and then I began to see. Slowly Dylan anointed my eyes and I beheld the realm of spirits, and it was empty. And I saw the souls of all people, empty. Quiet. While reading on, a cat stealthily approached my side and began to groom itself. There was a sweet sting when she rasped my hand with her barbed tongue. I cried when she had licked off all the skin. Still she delved deeper, parting muscle and tendon from bone and devouring it all. Yet under it all was something left, something that had been hidden, something that she couldn't consume. I touched Dylan's poems with it and I began to understand. I touched the spirits and my soul and they were full. Filled by my truth.

I have a red book, a journal of sorts that I want to fill. The blank pages scream for my companionship until finally I will lay myself to rest upon them. There is nothing like seeing yourself through a mirror covered in your own words.