Awake you suck
The air molecules into lungs that
Unknowingly go on with their work
To provide oxygen to brain cells
That send the neurological signals
To your writhing muscles as your
Thumbs, sliding and pounding
Crush all the candy.
Alive you scream
The air out of freezing lungs as feet
Burn with friction from the downhill sprint
The wet grass soaks your clothes
And the fog breaks open to a view
Of the ocean, which fits itself through
The windows of your eyes and crams
Into your mind and spirit causing it to expand
Yes, it threatens to explode
By Friedrich Schiller
Translation by Daniel Platt
A stream of rain from fissured mountains,
It comes with thunder’s vehemence,
A shattered peak pursues its fountains,
And oaks beneath it tumble hence;
Amazed, with dread anticipation,
The wanderer listens, and he harks,
He hears the roaring inundation,
Yet knows not, whence its rush embarks;
And so a wave of singing courses
From out of ne’er discovered sources.
In league with dreadful beings fabled,
That calmly weave life’s fateful strands,
Who has the singer’s spell disabled,
Who can his melodies withstand?
As if with Hermes’ staff supernal,
So he commands the heart bestirred,
He dips it in the realms infernal,
He lifts it, dazzling, heavenward
And rocks the scale, ‘twixt grave and merry
Where myriad emotions vary.
As if at once, into joy’s sphere, it’s
Gigantic stride comes instantly,
Mysteriously, like to spirits,
Intrudes a monstrous destiny.
Then bow the great ones of all nations
To the stranger from another world,
The din of idle jubilation
Is stilled, away the masks are hurled,
And ‘fore the Truth’s triumphal splendor
There flees each work that Lies engender.
Thus roused from all the empty rigors,
Whene’er the call of Song resounds,
A man becomes a soul transfigured,
And enters into holy grounds;
Unto the gods on high he’s suited,
Naught earthly draws into his pale,
And every other power is muted,
And no misfortune may assail,
Each wrinkle born of worry dwindles,
Where reigns the magic Song enkindles.
And just as after hopeless yearning,
The bitter pain of years apart,
A child with tears remorseful burning
Will fall upon his mother’s heart,
So back to childhood’s habitations,
To innocent felicity,
From foreign ways of distant nations
The singing leads the refugee,
Away from frigid rules he races
To faithful Nature’s warm embraces.
Staring red eyed down the alley way
Dumpsters frame the skies of gray
Garbage is a place to lay
When hunger makes a rebel sway
Or stray from strength
And fall in stench
Alive by night, asleep by day
The blare of noon will wake him up
A collared heart, a savage pup
The picket fences weren’t enough
Nor were the steeples
With lager lather
From the rafters
A heart that feels
And longs for meaning
Respect and meals
Not for food but company
Not for shoes but eyes that see
Past dumb decision
And unhealthy patterns
And through to what matters
Throwing himself on concrete stairs
At the old catholic church on fifth and Madison
Crying himself to sleep
Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.
By Gerald Manley Hopkins
As king fishers catch fire, dragonflies draw flame;
As tumbled over rim in roundy wells
Stones ring; like each tucked string tells, each hung bell’s
Bow swung finds tongue to fling out broad its name;
Each mortal thing does one thing and the same:
Deals out that being indoors each one dwells;
Selves — goes itself; myself it speaks and spells,
Crying What I do is me: for that I came.
I say more: the just man justices;
Keeps grace: that keeps all his goings graces;
Acts in God’s eye what in God’s eye he is —
Christ. For Christ plays in ten thousand places,
Lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his
To the Father through the features of men’s faces.
By Torri Horness
I will not try to convince you to love me.
I am not a shout,
but a whisper,
& if you cannot hear the
sounds of wonder
coming from my life,
it is not I who need to scream,
but you who
need to learn to listen.
you keep waiting
to be startled awake, to
find something loud enough to love.
love is not a surprise party
thrown in your honor,
& I will not throw a single punch
in this fight for your attention.
there is beauty in the quiet,
in the still & homespun.
I am a whisper,
& a whisper
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