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

 

 

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.

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




....