Some poems emerge as an unfolding from within. Others are an idea or image that need to be worked on. Others arrive at you fully formed.

This poem hit me like a train yesterday and I had to rush to write it down before it passed all the way through.

It’s definitely a truth I needed to hear. Perhaps it is for you too:


The Holy Spirit
took out a scalpel
while I lay motionless
on the operating table.

I knew that it would hurt.
I knew from years of experience
that I could not get away.

The first slice
went through skin,
the second through muscle
and the third through bone.
She pushed her slender fingers
in, pinched, and pulled out
a bloody sample.

She placed it under a microscope
and studied it for a while.
There was a shake of the head,
a few mutterings
of disapproval.

Then she whipped around
and looked right at me,
and I felt the wound bubble
and hiss
from the glory;

‘What do you see?’
I stammered.

‘I see life, desperate
to be lived. I see
the divine image,
and gifts that only you can give.
‘I see all these things,
and true,
and I see the fear
that is keeping them locked
within you.’

Gideon Heugh