The poem sequence After the Rapture unfolds as a sweeping meditation on transcendence, loss, memory, and fragile hope in the aftermath of both personal and cosmic upheaval. Structured as a series of titled movements, it reads almost like a liturgical or musical composition, moving from ecstatic ascent through devastation toward a tentative, spiritual reconciliation. The sequence blends apocalyptic imagery with intimate human experience, suggesting that the “rapture” it invokes is not merely a religious event, but also an emotional and psychological rupture that reshapes perception, identity, and connection.
The opening poem, “Ascension,” establishes the tone of transformation through language that merges the sensual with the spiritual. The “orgasmic tingling / of the Great Compassion” signals an experience that is both bodily and transcendent, collapsing traditional boundaries between flesh and spirit. Physicality dissolves into “crystalline Light,” suggesting enlightenment but also disintegration. This duality—release as both liberation and loss—permeates the entire sequence. While some ascend, others are “left behind,” grounded in a quieter, more ambiguous aftermath symbolized by the “gentle rain.” This juxtaposition introduces a key tension: transcendence is not universally shared, and those who remain must grapple with awe, absence, and longing.
“The Future is Now” deepens this introspective dimension by turning inward. The speaker’s journey through “the Portals of your / Watery eyes” becomes a passage into memory, identity, and illusion. The imagery of the “Matrix” and “Labyrinth” suggests a reality that is constructed, unstable, and difficult to navigate. Time collapses here—past lives, forgotten incarnations, and present emotion coexist in a single moment. The Latin epitaph, “Posterus est iam” (“it is already past”), reinforces the sense that the future and the past are indistinguishable. This disorientation reflects a post-rapture consciousness in which linear time has fractured, leaving the speaker suspended between memory and immediacy, unable to fully anchor themselves in either.
In “Pavane: un poème pour la fin des temps,” the focus shifts to emotional vulnerability, particularly in the context of masculinity. The image of a man weeping in a woman’s arms challenges traditional expectations, portraying grief as both humiliating and deeply human. The “clumsy pavane,” a slow, courtly dance, becomes a metaphor for the awkward negotiation of intimacy and healing. The maternal archetype offers temporary restoration, but the recovery is fragile, framed as a “momentary indiscretion.” Even in tenderness, there is an awareness of impending collapse, as though emotional expression itself is occurring at the edge of time.
The titular “After the Rapture” grounds the sequence in a starkly mundane reality. The grand cosmic battle gives way to an image of two lovers sharing a cigarette on a “thin Styrofoam mattress.” This contrast between the epic and the ordinary underscores one of the poem’s central insights: survival after catastrophe is often defined not by heroic triumph, but by small, intimate acts of connection. Yet even this intimacy is shadowed by unease. The “withered bonsai” symbolizes a stunted, carefully controlled life, a reminder of a past when dreams were “unencumbered.” The present, by contrast, is precarious and diminished.
The sequence then expands outward again into overtly apocalyptic imagery. “The Fourth Horseman” reframes death not as a singular event but as a daily theft of “yet unlived memories,” emphasizing the tragedy of unrealized potential. “The Tribulation” critiques not only violence and fanaticism but also the “pestilent apathy” of those who remain passive. Here, the poem suggests that moral failure lies as much in silence as in aggression. This theme resonates with contemporary anxieties, making the apocalyptic vision feel less like a distant prophecy and more like an extension of present realities.
“Armageddon” and “Requiem” intensify this vision of collapse through vivid, almost surreal imagery. Flooded cities, volcanic eruptions, and endless processions of the lost create a landscape of total disintegration. Yet amidst this chaos, there is still music—bells, humming, a “requiem.” Art and ritual persist even as the world falls apart, offering a form of resistance or at least a means of endurance. The “endless journey of / Displaced souls” captures a universal human condition: the search for meaning in the face of overwhelming loss.
The final movements, “Redeeming Saviour” and “Gloria in Excélsis Deo,” introduce a note of spiritual reconciliation. The vision of “Christ the Redeemer” and the communal chant of praise suggest a return to faith, though it is not a naive or untroubled faith. The speakers acknowledge their “broken” backs and “tattered” wings, emphasizing that redemption does not erase suffering but coexists with it. The assertion that “the ways to You are many” broadens the spiritual framework, allowing for plurality and personal interpretation.
Ultimately, After the Rapture is less about an end than about what follows it. It explores how individuals and societies navigate the aftermath of transformation—how they remember, grieve, love, and hope. By weaving together the cosmic and the intimate, the poem suggests that the true “rapture” may lie not in escape from the world, but in the difficult, ongoing act of finding meaning within it.
The poems:
AFTER THE RAPTURE.
ASCENSION.
In an instant,
the orgasmic tingling
of the Great Compassion
transmutes physicality
into crystalline Light,
thus releasing the
new-found frequency
to find completion in
the vortex of
universal vibration.
And meanwhile,
a gentle rain
falls upon the Earth;
cultivating awe and
aspiration in those
left behind.
THE FUTURE IS NOW.
Just for a moment
I surreptitiously
Slip through the
Portals of your
Watery eyes and
Catch a glimpse of
The celestial encoding
Of the Matrix.
I wander
Into the light of
Eternal memory
Reverberating
The sacred mantra
Deafening my disillusionment
With the illusion of the
Labyrinth’s dead ends
And in my stupor I
Recall the last words
Of a forgotten incarnation,
Wilting as a black rose
Under a peach-coloured
Sky – cloudless and still –
A mere heartbeat
Beyond time;
Echoing its low-grade pulse
As I frantically
Run up and down the
Alleys of La Recoleta
Trying to dodge the raindrops.
And just as you speak
I find myself on my hands and
Knees facing my epitaph:
“Posterus est iam”,
And quite uncontrollably, a single
Teardrop overflows the
Pocket of my left eye as I
Recapture our own
Generic moment in
Shared space and time.
PAVANE: un poème pour la fin des temps.
There is nothing more beautiful
And yet so sorrowful as
A man’s tears over humiliation
And loss, cradled in the bosom
Of a woman.
Uncontrollable sobbing —
A torrential rainfall
Recalling a wilderness
Landscape unashamedly seeking
Refuge from gushing winds
And rapids, thunder and lightning
Against a purple, grey and orange
Sky – in betrayal of a lifetime of
Emotional constipation and
Affections of masculinity.
A once-graceful sylph –
Now stumbling and gasping
For breath – beckons and
Invites him to join her in
A clumsy pavane, until
The quintessential mother
Archetype manages to
Rock the fallen one back
From the crevice of
Momentary indiscretion
At the end of time,
And whimpers accede to
Retrieval of pride and
Passion in the guise of
Poetic procreation.
AFTER THE RAPTURE.
Spent, sweaty and out-of-breath
We lie back and
Light a single cigarette
To be shared in symbolic
Celebration after an intergalactic
Battle between brazen faith and
Foolish adventure.
My tattered wings clumsily
Tucked in between my back
And the thin Styrofoam mattress;
Your head buried in my chest
And your matted hair still wet from
Our midnight dip in the Styx.
Who would have guessed that
The heaven of our making
Would be like this? … so
Characterized by the mundane,
With intermittent interruptions
Of surrealistic struggles for
Survival: win or lose … all
Or nothing .. one day at a time.
As the moon eclipses, the last
Sight I see before I drift off
Is the withered bonsai in the
Opening of our pre-war dwelling.
A reminder of a time when
We still dared to sleep soundly;
Carefully wrapped in unencumbered
Dreams in the style of our ancestors.
THE FOURTH HORSEMAN.
I have come to accept
the threat of the first horseman,
on his mighty white steed –
causing in me a seemingly
everlasting sense of suspicion,
caution and readiness, and
I have sadly learned to expect
the relentless ravages of
war and emotional famine
brought on by the
rider on the red horse,
and the pestilence in the
saddlebags of the black steed.
Ironically, I mostly dread
the thieving fourth horseman
who arrives each dawn
on his pale mare and
reclaims from my broken dreams
the yet unlived memories of our love.
THE TRIBULATION.
The globalisation of
indiscriminate violence
is multiplied to
the power of the sixes,
and the Antichrist
smiles broadly at
the cancerous spreading
of fear and perdition –
rationalized by armies of
self-proclaimed truth.
But the greatest
threat from these
soldiers of hatred
is perhaps echoed in
the pestilent apathy
which is rampant
amongst those
elements of world populace
not directly affected by
the ravages of persecution,
and whose messengers
of love and compassion
no longer dare to
speak out – for
fear of getting caught
in the crossfire.
ARMAGEDDON.
Barking dogs
have long since
gone hoarse;
the incessant
b-flat octaves
tolling from
cathedrals,
cemeteries and
city halls are the
only musical
accompaniment to
the wailing
and mutterings
of the insane and
the shell-shocked.
Black-robed and
barefoot Nazarenos
trudge aimlessly
up and down
the flooding boulevards,
streets and alleyways
in this year-long
Semana Santa;
a macabre procession
matched in passion
only by the
mega tsunamis and
super volcanic
eruptions cataclysmically
creating myriads of
Devil’s Throats
as the reddish-brown
water whirlpools
about the rubble of
once looming
skyscrapers.
Resolutely ..
I rock myself
to inner drunkenness,
quietly humming
Ravel’s Pavane pour
une Infante Défunte.
REQUIEM.
Once fresh air is
Now pungent
With the odor of
Desiccated seashells
Picked nearly clean
By eloquent predators
And the opportunists
Who are never
Far behind them.
Perched swallows
Look on with fear
And disbelief at
Seagulls gliding, then
Careening too far
Inland, their hysterical
Laughter a parody of
A sonata appassionata
Against a now-barren
Landscape devoid of
Romanticism and
Common decency.
If one listens closely
One can hear a requiem
For a milder Age that ended
All-too-abruptly – it is
A solemn dirge describing
The endless journey of
Displaced souls desperately
Trying not to see or hear
While carefully guarding
Their most prized possession:
Hope that there is more
Meaning to be grasped
For he who holds out
Beyond the bitter end.
REDEEMING SAVIOUR.
Mesmerized by the
Anointing smile of
Christ the Redeemer
I see a muse
Slow-dancing
With an angel
To the chanting
Of a monk’s choir;
A solemn moment’s
Reprieve from a
Raging sea of cynicism.
And I cling tightly to my
Dream-state while
Tears of joy and recognition
Rock me lovingly back to
True consciousness;
Reminiscent of
Life between lives –
A moment of bliss
Recaptured.
GLORIA IN EXCÉLSIS DEO.
Gloria in excélsis Deo!
Alleluia .. Alleluia ..
Although our backs are broken,
And our wings are tattered;
Our hearts and souls
Will forever sing your praises.
There is only one God,
But the ways to You are many.
Alleluia .. Alleluia ..
Alleluia .. Alleluia ..
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