from: EVANGELII GAUDIUM (2013)

Mary, Virgin and Mother,
you who, moved by the Holy Spirit,
welcomed the word of life
in the depths of your humble faith:
as you gave yourself completely to the Eternal One,
help us to say our own “yes”
to the urgent call, as pressing as ever,
to proclaim the good news of Jesus.

Filled with Christ’s presence,
you brought joy to John the Baptist,
making him exult in the womb of his mother.
Brimming over with joy,
you sang of the great things done by God.
Standing at the foot of the cross
with unyielding faith,
you received the joyful comfort of the resurrection,
and joined the disciples in awaiting the Spirit
so that the evangelizing Church might be born.

Obtain for us now a new ardour born of the resurrection,
that we may bring to all the Gospel of life
which triumphs over death.
Give us a holy courage to seek new paths,
that the gift of unfading beauty
may reach every man and woman.



Virgin of listening and contemplation,
Mother of love, Bride of the eternal wedding feast,
pray for the Church, whose pure icon you are,
that she may never be closed in on herself
or lose her passion for establishing God’s kingdom.

Star of the new evangelization,
help us to bear radiant witness to communion,
service, ardent and generous faith,
justice and love of the poor,
that the joy of the Gospel
may reach to the ends of the earth,
illuminating even the fringes of our world.

Mother of the living Gospel,
wellspring of happiness for God’s little ones,
pray for us.

Amen. Alleluia!





....

the quiet voice of ... Joseph Ceravolo

          







 __________ Woods



    The hawks float over us
    two next to each other
    hunting us all day
   to tell us we live and breathe
    the harsh woods,

     and the deer scent pervades
     justice, honor, freedom
    in that sacred spot inside.

      The hawks on the air
      we on the sphagnum
       of this bog in
      reforming the earth.

     We stop, we stalk
    the ancient trail in the rain.
    The flap of wings,
    the song inside mixing
    with our heated eyes
     and insides. The hawk

    like Hermes follows us.
    It is everywhere, it is nowhere
       follows our inside eyes
    follows beyond solar winds
     beyond golden shadows of death
         to a common eternity.

—from Mad Angels









...

a romanian expression

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

         GOD EXISTS

 

 

 

 

 

       By Costache Ioanid

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, no! We are not a dream, an accident,

Nor a self-modeled clay.

But a Creative Force,

A Boundless Wisdom

Molded us.

Truly, God exists!
 

Oh, no! We are not grim wild beasts,

Led by a ruthless whip.

We have a soul,

And freedom,

A heart that beats for skies up high.

Truly, God exists!
 

Not ever would the plowed land

A chaste lily’s smile have noticed,

Hadn’t the Almighty his hand out reached

With feelings our inner well to fill.

Truly, God exists!
 

We bear the Scriptures as a proof,

And never-ending miracles and signs.

And he, who God to see desires,

Should stand in front of Him,

On barricades!

Truly, God exists!
 

Not always shiny is our journey,

Nor is our life a fairy-tale.

But we do live for it’s worth living

When high, above the narrowed world,

God exists!
 

Oh, no! We are not void!

What blessedness!

The Ultimate Truth is revealed.

Jesus lives inside of us,

Light and love,

And death is flight into eternity.

What blessedness!

Truly, God exists!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

i lifted this poem from Lutheran Surrealism which is the only place on the whole wide web

where i could find a poem of Ioanid in english translation

 

 

.....

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

from a long poem The Sugar Cane

 






The cultur'd land recalls the devious Muse;
Propitious to the planter be the call:
For much, my friend, it thee imports to know
The meetest season to commit thy tops,
With best advantage, to the well-dug mould.
The task how difficult, to cull the best
From thwarting sentiments; and best adorn
What Wisdom chuses, in poetic garb!
Yet, Inspiration, come: the theme unsung,
Whence never poet cropt one bloomy wreath;
Its vast importance to my native land,
Whose sweet idea rushes on my mind,
And makes me 'mid this paradise repine;
Urge me to pluck, from Fancy's soaring wing,
A plume to deck Experience hoary brow.


                                   James Grainger -        approx. AD 1765 








...

The Burnt Man and Me Study in Blindness

Dirty askew         Cap in the shade
I used to be him        Under a Bridge
Sun-burnt shining       Block of red-gold
American Icon             Tractor spinning by
Pulling a Mower Rake and Bailer     Hay one month a year
Hey! I say                       I used to be him
Blister bubble back      Pop Tart breakfast
Motor home overnight         I used to be him

Cock-a-doodle-doo         In the city
You called me from the day      To the entrance to the night
Your sweet sweet voice       Lured me away
Astray from I used to be him      Goddamn charred-up
He's a God in his own right           Burnt-down rascal

Refrigerator heart beam      Out of the soul
Me and Him both                 Drink ice cold beer
Me under soft skin                Sitting sound-proofed
Him up at dawn                     Scraping his palms
Hi-day hay! Hi-day ho!           I'm stuck on a bridge
He's under the sun                  I drive through the night
He's all day long                       Stepping on dirt

"How come you know him    Little city-slicker?"
I saw him yesterday     Red-plated gold
Feeding on the eddy     Cap askew head
He's got a spinning rod     I wished I'd had one
He was my uncle      My grand-dad and aunt
My Tupperware supper     Great-grandmother too
My jadeite dream       I saw him at a fish fry
Two hours away        It was too damn hot

Hand worn face-wrinkle     He's older than me
I used to be him      Before I had to dream
You called me through the night     To the entrance to the city
We went for a soft drink     He showers with his beer
He showers then to bed      I drive through the night fog
I lost you in the light-tent      I searched the broken streets
I lost you in the night-tent     I used to be him

He's blinded by the sun       I wish I were burnt
He's blinded but perfect       I've lost track of you
Ancient! Ancient! Red          never slathered
Trout in the water                 Man in the field
I've blinded you                     And you've blinded me
We're blind hallelujahs           I used to be him
And the baseball cap and the cooler     I used to be
And the sun burn on the outside          We're all staring baby
No one's blinded right             No one yet at least
No one's blinded right              At the entrance to night





                                        Nate Mohatt







...

secrets of living

may my heart always be open to little
birds who are the secrets of living
whatever they sing is better than to know
and if men should not hear them men are old

may my mind stroll about hungry
and fearless and thirsty and supple
and even if it's sunday may i be wrong
for whenever men are right they are not young

and may myself do nothing usefully
and love yourself so more than truly
there's never been quite such a fool who could fail
pulling all the sky over him with one smile




                                                e.e.    cummings




....

and the colored girls go......

....In Berlin, by the wall
you were five foot ten inches tall
It was very nice
candlelight and Dubonnet on ice

We were in a small cafe
you could hear the guitars play
It was very nice
it was paradise

You're right and I'm wrong
hey babe, I'm gonna miss you now that you're gone
One sweet day

Oh, you're right and I'm wrong
you know I'm gonna miss you now that you're gone
One sweet day
One sweet day

In a small, small cafe
we could hear the guitars play
It was very nice
candlelight and Dubonnet on ice

Don't forget, hire a vet
he hasn't had that much fun yet
It was very nice
hey honey, it was paradise

You're right and I'm wrong
oh babe, I'm gonna miss you now that you're gone
One sweet day
You're right, oh, and I'm wrong
you know I'm gonna miss you now that you're gone
One sweet day
One sweet day

One sweet day, one sweet day
oh, one sweet day
One sweet day, baby-baby, one sweet day
one sweet day, one sweet day







                              Lou Reed    +(october  2013)









....

Little Stones at My Window

Once in a while
joy throws little stones at my window
it wants to let me know that it's waiting for me
but today I'm calm
I'd almost say even-tempered
I'm going to keep anxiety locked up
and then lie flat on my back
which is an elegant and comfortable position
for receiving and believing news

who knows where I'll be next
or when my story will be taken into account
who knows what advice I still might come up with
and what easy way out I'll take not to follow it

don't worry, I won't gamble with an eviction
I won't tattoo remembering with forgetting
there are many things left to say and suppress
and many grapes left to fill our mouths

don't worry, I'm convinced
joy doesn't need to throw any more little stones
I'm coming
I'm coming.

                                    Mario Benedetti  
                                          (Uraguayan poet )

FROM THE MARTYROLOGY ( to be chanted )

..                   of those saints we know the listing follows   saint orm married saint rain gave birth to saint iff and saint ave this is the oldest family saint iff married saint rive gave birth to saint reat who married saint agnes gave birth to saint rand   saint ave married saint raits gave birth to saint ranglehold who did not marry of the other families these we mention saint ill married saint ove gave birth to saint and & saint rike saint and did not marry saint rike married saint ain gave birth to their son the nameless one saint aggers wife is now forgotten gave birth to saint ump & saint rap gave birth to noone dying in the fire reat had set                bpNichol     (  +   1988 )                     -canadian poet        ....

as in modern virtue ethics

 

 

 

If it rains fire
   you have to be as the water;

               if it is a deluge of water
                you have to be as the wind;

 if it is the Great Flood,
       you have to be as the sky;

     and if it is the Very Last Flood of all the worlds,
               you have to give up self

and become the Lord.

 

 

                              Allama Prabhu   (  12th  century )

 

 

                           trans.   A  K  Ramanujan

 

 

 

 

 

....

once more with passion

the fundamental effort

                                    




                                        Prayer for Revolutionary Love






That a woman not ask a man to leave meaningful work to
                                                                                   follow her.
That a man not ask a woman to leave meaningful work to
                                                                                  follow him.

That no one try to put Eros in bondage.
But that no one put a cudgel in the hands of Eros.

That our loyalty to one another and our loyalty to our work
                                                            not be set in false conflict.

That our love for each other give us love for each other's work.
That our love for each other's work give us love for one another.

That our love for each other's work give us love for one another.
That our love for one another give us love for each other's work.

That our love for each other,  if need be,
give way to absence.  And the unknown.

That we endure absence,  if need be,
without losing our love for each other.
Without closing our doors to the unknown.



                                 Denise Levertov










i've been struggling with this poem for a few weeks wondering what is going on here...what about this establishing orthodoxy in love...or trying to...at one point i asked myself - what about the sacrificial aspect of man-woman love....the only conjugal love we should spend any time justifying....the only sort of human love that reflects clearly the love of god on earth....that and the lesser perhaps sort of love which is marked by the effort at perfect chastity...the christian commitment to being single for christ... i tend to think that in terms of sacrifice the love between a woman and a man carries more gravitas....more immediate demand for loving sacrifice.

if it's just about finding a balance of wills which allows for the granting of conjugal freedom one way or the other...it seems to me the struggle leads to a place where a split in the union will have to be regarded as imminent...or at least posited as a definite possibility...it would seem that a love between a man and woman could be somehow so certain as to be almost infinitely trusting...but is this realistic?   i wonder....i was a little disturbed to discover that denise and her husband divorced right about the time this poem was written

a few years later denise found her way into communion with the church into which she dedicted her spiritual growth until her death ...   and beyond ...  she sought her full communion with god in the catholic realm for 10 years

a quick google search of   'the obituary of denise levertov'    is interesting in that both the wikipedia article and the 1997 article in 'the independent'   make almost no mention of the themes of her final years where-in she professes an ardent catholicism

i trust the tone of this poem because it is really striving for orthodoxy in love
where it falls down it seems to me is in the avoidance of the topic of sacrifice
and therefore
SACRAMENT

but to read the pome outloud carries a powerful weight
perhaps that she dares to speak of love so eloquently is
strength enough for the pome




....









.

random sample

 






   



      182   -   THE PUNY MIND

Factory for tears and cover letters

with a dried-out gin for picking seeds

of talent fruit fallen from the playoff.

Picking seeds from tongues and teeth

and something sharp as optic fiber

starts to blur in grey circles. Ahead

holds the wrinkle in its little manner,

leaves before us felt and feeling numb.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                      ceej

 

 

 

 

 

 

.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 EARLY AUTUMN:   AT THE POOL OF SPRINKLING WATER

 

 

 

 

BY CHAO TI OF HAN, THE "BRIGHT EMPEROR"

 

 

 

 

 

IN Autumn, when the landscape is clear,

       to float over the wide, water ripples,
To pick the water-chestnut and the lotus-flower 

            with a quick, light hand!
The fresh wind is cool, 

          we start singing to the movement of the oars.
The clouds are bright; they part before the light of dawn;

      the moon has sunk below the Silver River.
Enjoying such pleasure for ten thousand years –
Could one consider it too much?

.

giveth taketh

                





                  Crop





The crop failed, first one year
and then the next.

Driven from family fields by hunger
they moved to towns
and then took ships across the water.

The Great Migration of an Island people
who sought relief from poverty.

In their ravaged, weakened frames,
they journeyed to another place.

An overwhelming emptiness
was left languishing in a deserted land.
Now in our present time
a new hunger harrows the land.

O Eucharistic Christ remain
to ease the growing doubt
and endless pain.



          Chris McDonnell










.

things are desperate in afghanistan too

A poet's job is not
                to write about love.
A poet's job is not
             to write about flowers.
A poet must write
about the plight
and pain
 of
the people.

         Matiullah Thurab      ( shouting from afghanistan )









no my friend you are mistaken
let the loud mouthed prophet
wrail against social injustice
it is your task to put into words
the language of love
the language of flowers
only then will you know
the pain of other people
don't drop love
from your pallette









.

 









Wading at Wellfleet




In one of the Assyrian wars
a chariot first saw the light
that bore sharp blades around its wheels.
 
That chariot from Assyria
went rolling down mechanically
to take the warriors by the heels.
 
A thousand warriors in the sea
could not consider such a war
as that the sea itself contrives
but hasn’t put in action yet.

          This morning’s glitterings reveal
the sea is “all a case of knives.”
Lying so close, they catch the sun,
the spokes directed at the shin.

          The chariot front is blue and great.
The war rests wholly with the waves:
they try revolving, but the wheels
give way; they will not bear the weight.


-Elizabeth Bishop




















.

Home in Wartime

Oxbows round the lower pasture wall;
new-mown hay and honeysuckle sweeten
the bitter modern air;
sunlight waterfalls over the woods;
life is a dream.

The phalanx of pin-headed turkeys parading the meadow
ignores the war, but the birch leaves shake with fear
and the mountain burns with reprisals.
Give me your hand. Trust it like love
down the hall at night.

If I die first, gather the lost years
with the late September apples. At sunset ghost me
beside you on the steps to watch
the tangerine-lavender clouds turn gray.
Go on, go on.

If you die first—the sheets as cold as fish,
the dogs whimpering their loneliness each morning,
the old walls cracking the silence—
I’ll lay your ashes on top of the hill
where the sky begins.

                          F.D. Reeve      +2013









.

verdant reflections

 



                    


                    Solstice High

 


Campfire flames warming my face--
 flickering beyond closed lids. 
      Perfect first eve of summer breeze off Sagatagan
            cooling gently from behind.
Angelic voice from a welcome stranger
                out for a stroll. 
Rich baritone of Br. John
              as always... soothes and lifts.
 Smooth draws of bow across the bass strings
              resonates deep in the soul.
 Prayers offered in song. 

Intermitent lighting of the sky
                 followed by
deep rumbles from the storm
         on a journey east... 
Family. Loved ones. Strangers. 
Community and hospitality.

 Welcome summer...




                        Susan Meyer   (  local poet   )











.

the pursuit of love (found poem)

A chord will emerge from the guitar
       either quickly or slowly;
 notice whether any part of the sound
 dies off sooner, or lingers longer, than another.

This is basic information
             that you won't get
       if
someone is playing whole songs;

 listen 

for basic volume and 

presence;

a chord will emerge
from the guitar

either


quickly

or                               slowly;


                     listen for some degree of separation:
 that is,
    you may be able to hear each note.
Or        not:
the        sound may be fuzzy or cloudy
 and lack focus;

 most chords will last
 six

to                      twelve

seconds;

 that gives you a sense of systemic sustain:

 pay attention
        to
    the quality of sound --
that is,
               whether it's                   warm,
 sweet,            tinny,            rich,        live,
fundamental,                 shallow,           breathy,           open,
 held back,                and/or
has           lots of                            overtones;

 is there compliance of response?
That is,
                      do you have to push the guitar
             or
does it respond easily                  to your touch;

 listen

to whether the sound
is
bass-heavy          or treble heavy,

 or well balanced;

 and whether the strength/presence of each string is even;

 and whether there are any  wolf               tones
 (i.e., problematically louder or quieter notes)

 and whether the guitar really plays in tune or         not;

 and whether the sound is good close-up,
and/or from across the room
 (you'll need a playing/listening partner for this);

 and whether            the guitar sounds      different
depending on               whether you're listening
from in front        of it
or
 from off to the side.

Some guitars      will astonish you
with how narrow
 their area of projection              is;
 and whether or not
                  the guitar
 has good dynamic                        range;

 that is,  
whether can you get different quality of             sound
from playing very softly,
 softly,
 medium,
harder,
and/or
really hard;

 if you repeat          these exercises
with             different chords
up and down the             neck
 you'll get a sense           of how evenly
 (or not)
 the guitar plays on       the whole fingerboard;

 be on the lookout for      tonal bloom;
that is,

whether the sound comes out
immediately
at full volume or
 
whether it integrates
and gets louder before it begins to wane;

 finally,
 you get to notice
               and decide
whether and how much
 you like or dislike
 any of these qualities of tonal response
 in the guitar you're playing.


                          Ervin Somogyi












.

...early on my favorite frost poem

             







                                                                     
                                                                      The Silken Tent

She  is as in  a field a silken tent
             At  midday  when the sunny summer breeze
           Has  dried the dew and all  its ropes relent,
    So  that in  guys it gently  sways at ease,
   And its supporting  central cedar  pole,
That   is its  pinnacle  to  heavenward
    And   signifies the  sureness of  the soul,
         Seems  to owe  naught to any  single cord,
           But  strictly  held by none,  is loosely bound
        By countless silken ties  of love and thought
         To  everything on earth  the compass round,
   And  only by one's going  slightly taut
  In  the capriciousness  of summer air
        Is  of the slightest  bondage made aware.

                                                                                        


                                                                                                      Robert Frost










.

a walk down memory lane

 

 

 

 

 

 

#101 "bluehawk?

 

 

for wallace lester

 

late one night
in the early "60s
between sets
at the village vanguard

charles mingus
was holding forth
on the current struggle
for black liberation

& making a lot of noise
when monk walked up,
stood there & listened,
then shook his head

& said to charlie,
"goddamn, mingus,
I never knew
you was black!"

 

 

               JOHN SINCLAIR

 

 

 

 

 

.

IN MAKING BODIES LOVE COULD NOT EXPRESS

In making bodies Love could not express
 Itself, or art, unless it made them less.
  O what a monster had in man been seen,
   Had every thumb or toe a mountain been!
    What worlds must he devour when he did eat?
      What oceans drink! yet could not all his meat,
        Or stature, make him like an angel shine ;
          Or make his Soul in Glory more Divine.
           A Soul it is that makes us truly great,
           Whose little bodies make us more complete.
            An understanding that is infinite,
             An endless, wide, and everlasting sight,
               That can enjoy all things and nought exclude,
                Is the most sacred greatness may be viewed.
  'Twas inconvenient that his bulk should be
    An endless hill ; he nothing then could see:
     No figure have, no motion, beauty, place,
      No colour, feature, member, light, or grace.
       A body like a mountain is but cumber.
        An endless body is but idle lumber:
         It spoils converse, and time itself devours,
          While meat in vain, in feeding idle powers;
           Excessive bulk being most injurious found,
            To those conveniences which men have crowned:
             His wisdom did His power here repress,
              God made man greater while He made him less.


                                                     Thomas Traherne    (1736  -  1774 )





. 








   .

           












              THE SECOND COMING


   
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.

  Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?



                          WB YEATS






















.

At the Quinte Hotel

I am drinking
I am drinking yellow flowers
in underground sunlight
and you can see that I am a sensitive man
And I notice that the bartender is a sensitive man
so I tell him about his beer
I tell him the beer he draws
is half fart and half horse piss
and all wonderful yellow flowers
But the bartender is not quite
so sensitive as I supposed he was
the way he looks at me now
and does not appreciate my exquisite analogy
Over in one corner two guys
are quietly making love
in the brief prelude to infinity
Opposite them a peculiar fight
enables the drinkers to lay aside
their comic books and watch with interest
while I watch with interest
A wiry little man slugs another guy
then tracks him bleeding into the toilet
and slugs him to the floor again
with ugly red flowers on the tile
three minutes later he roosters over
to the table where his drunk friend sits
with another friend and slugs both
of em ass-over-electric-kettle
so I have to walk around
on my way for a piss
Now I am a sensitive man
so I say to him mildly as hell
“You shouldn’ta knocked over that good beer
with them beautiful flowers in it”
So he says to me “Come on”
So I Come On
like a rabbit with weak kidneys I guess
like a yellow streak charging
on flower power I suppose
& knock the shit outa him & sit on him
(he is just a little guy)
and say reprovingly
“Violence will get you nowhere this time chum
Now you take me
I am a sensitive man
and would you believe I write poems?”
But I could see the doubt in his upside down face
in fact in all the faces
“What kinda poems?”
“Flower poems”
“So tell us a poem”
I got off the little guy but reluctantly
for he was comfortable
and told them this poem
They crowded around me with tears
in their eyes and wrung my hands feelingly
for my pockets for
it was a heart-warming moment for Literature
and moved by the demonstrable effect
of great Art and the brotherhood of people I remarked
” – the poem oughta be worth some beer”
It was a mistake of terminology
for silence came
and it was brought home to me in the tavern
that poems will not really buy beer or flowers
or a goddam thing
and I was sad
for I am a sensitive man


           Al Purdy














.

perspective abounds

                      






                           


                           Crow's Theology



Crow realized God loved him-
Otherwise, he would have dropped dead.
So that was proved.
Crow reclined, marvelling, on his heart-beat.

And he realized that God spoke Crow-
Just existing was His revelation.

But what Loved the stones and spoke stone?
They seemed to exist too.
And what spoke that strange silence
After his clamour of caws faded?

And what loved the shot-pellets
That dribbled from those strung-up mummifying crows?
What spoke the silence of lead?

Crow realized there were two Gods-

One of them much bigger than the other
Loving his enemies
And having all the weapons.


                                    Ted Hughes














.

obscurity becomes him

“How Do You Make That Sound?”---------------------








It is both excruciating
  and astonishing.
   One mere human should not be capable
     of such diaphanous devastation.
      This tortuous cacophony penetrates my very being
       with its unceasing vibration.
        Like a porcine opera diva from hell
         you fill my mind, my soul, my body, my being
          with the never-ending snorts and sniffles of some
           supra-Machiavellian dis-utopia.
            Daphne.
             Daphne!
              Wake-up!




                                                        Mort Escanduleous










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Changing Owners

               










                       The blue sky is more vivid
                    like dreams become more vivid
                    as we age. They have a smell
                   almost a dream scent somehow.
                  Calling coyotes, if all is right,
                  to yip and howl up the hill,
                   and when all are gathered,
                 rush through the wood, owned
                only by them, and into the deserted
                streets of this town; that thinks it’s
                  civilized, and is owned too, by
                   the darkness and the dim glow
                    of a streetlight moon, and the sound
                    of something, a cottontail maybe,
                     or maybe a cat, suffering
                      for a moment before
                        it dies.







                                     ........Larry Gavin











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sweep of wing

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eagle Poem

To pray you open your whole self
To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon
To one whole voice that is you.
And know there is more
That you can't see, can't hear
Can't know except in moments
Steadily growing, and in languages
That aren't always sound but other
Circles of motion.
Like eagle that Sunday morning
Over Salt River. Circles in blue sky
In wind, swept our hearts clean
With sacred wings.
We see you, see ourselves and know
That we must take the utmost care
And kindness in all things.
Breathe in, knowing we are made of
All this, and breathe, knowing
We are truly blessed because we
Were born, and die soon, within a
True circle of motion,
Like eagle rounding out the morning
Inside us.
We pray that it will be done
In beauty.
In beauty.

~ Joy Harjo ~

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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transtemporal communique'

                                                   




                                                       


                                                      Progress


 


                             Traveling west from the Mississippi
                               A highway now supplants
                                 The rutted oxen trail.

                           The railroad has straightened the highway;
                              The grain elevators have supplanted
                                 The derelict depot.

                              In front of the ethanol plant
                                   Forty -foot high piles of corn
                                     Have supplanted the grain elevators

                                Giant wind turbines
                                   Have supplanted the windmill
                                       Guarding an abandoned stock tank

                                      The water tower supplying the gas station
                                         And Molly's Cafe and Motel
                                             Squats beneath the cell tower

                            Which massages the brains of all the inhabitants
                              Until they too fall into the black soil
                                   Heaving her breast into the rain.





                                                           Jon Fagerson


















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