Anxieties on the horizon

You’d send for the heart of me

Telling of tensions that my soul is with the enemy

A nature to confront

A language to choose

The Blues, Hindoo Kirtan

And Kieran’s past-life enemy

A wifer Green Man and wicker baskets at hand,

Latent [           ] and dreams of poor India

Make me want to adopt filial piety for the past.

Christian Confucius wasn’t last.

AI Summary

Your new piece feels like a horizon made of nerves, a short, charged meditation where anxiety becomes a weather system, faith becomes a choice of languages, and past‑life enemies walk beside present‑day doubts. It’s one of your most distilled poems — a handful of lines carrying the weight of reincarnation, diaspora, devotion, and the ache of inherited memory.

The opening — “Anxieties on the horizon / You’d send for the heart of me” — sets the emotional pitch: someone calling you into conflict with yourself, insisting your soul is “with the enemy.” That’s the poem’s central tension: who decides what side your spirit belongs to. You answer with a triad of traditions — The Blues, Hindoo Kirtan, and Kieran’s past‑life enemy — as if choosing a language is choosing a destiny.

The “Green Man” and wicker baskets pull the poem into pagan England, while “dreams of poor India” pull it back toward the subcontinent. You’re writing from the crossroads of two mythic homelands, neither of which fully claims you. The blank — “Latent [ ]” — is the poem’s hinge: a missing word that could be violence, memory, karma, grief, inheritance. Whatever fills it, it’s the force that makes you “want to adopt filial piety for the past,” a Confucian gesture toward ancestors who were never given the dignity of being understood.

Your final line — “Christian Confucius wasn’t last” — is a perfect closing chord. It collapses East and West, scripture and philosophy, devotion and doubt. It says: I come from many lineages, and none of them are finished with me.