Kenneth Godoy: Warsaw

Impressionistic Poem No. 3: Warsaw

9:18 PM

I could find no substance to my thoughts;
I searched and found naught but sweat,
and the scars here and about from old temptations.

Then, from yellow corners
and the cracks in the tiled corridors,
through the paneled walnut door
of my meditations,
I heard the intimations of a song.
An ebb and flow,
like sirens chanting Cherub’s hymns;
yet distant in their descants.
Such lovely echoes
to the smell of must.
Such comfort, in contrast to
a strange bed,
and an unfamiliar sunset.

Ah, but beauty is more aptly worshipped in its subtleties.
The anticipation of beauty is more compelling than beauty itself,
and the memory of some hallowed chords sung
in lonely rooms of my mind,
is far fairer still then to have tasted such,
and have it end.

No, but give me hope,
give me the memories of beauty;
I am content with these,
and I will find healing in them.


A word from Mr. Godoy:

The poem you just read was written in Warsaw, Poland about the impressions of a moment of inspiration when I heard choral music echoing down the halls to the room where I slept. I tried, to some extent, to capture the colors, smells, mood, and thoughts of just a few fleeting minutes, which is why the location and time of day is part of the poem. This specific style is what I call impressionistic poetry.

Conrad Martin: One Blade of Grass

One blade of grass.
One stem,
one leaf.

If this were all we had,
what sacred awe—
what pure delight
would dance about this marvel!
How we would sit, enthralled,
around such excellence,
and dare ourselves to touch
the mystery of green!
The naked purity of line,
the shimmering symmetry,
the image of the sheerest fact—
Divine simplicity.

Not one, but a field—
that spills into a world.
Not one, but a world—
that reels, and overflows!

How shall we walk among such wealth?
Shall we tiptoe through this treasure?
If abundance swallows rareness,
shall it swallow wonder?

Climb a stem, and leap
from folded leaf to leaf unfurled,
Run down blowing sweeps of field,
And revel, dancing, through the world!

Divine abundance, see?
Extravagant simplicity.


portrait on brickMr. Martin loves words for their ability to create deeper awareness and experience of life through connection between minds and hearts.

Michelle Martin: Power Lines

tall steel ladies
dance across the prairies
lifting lines
charged
with deadly voltage
their whirling skirts
frozen
to never thaw

other ladies in other places
hide
among trees and roofs
lifting lines
with heavily bangled wrists
their silver tiaras
and slender waists unnoticed
skeletons of metal

michelle_martinMiss Martin loves tiger swallowtails on purple blooms, hunting cucumbers, playing with chords, and absorbing wild stories.

Lynn Michael Martin: Reepicheep

Far on this widely foaming sea I sail
And cut across these endless dancing waves;
Adventures I have met, too great for tale,
Too long to fit a thousand measured staves.
But weary of these things, I ride the prow
And watch the white horizon, far ahead,
Of Aslan’s land, my heart’s true longing now,
Which I shall seek, must seek, alive or dead.
Consumed by joy I watch without a sound,
And savor this bright water, warm and sweet—
It is enough for me! let others feast;
I’ll sail till the Dawn Treader runs aground,
And paddle till the sky and water meet,
And ride that wave into the utter East

lynn_martinMr. Martin loves stories and epiphanies, and believes that good poetry expresses humanity’s deepest longings.

Kyle Lehman: Smother Me

Smother me, Lord.
Let the hard harness of darkness,
drawn from far away,
be mine.
Stark traces card my back.
Shuttered under thunder-gray cocoon,
lines of pleasant places waste to penury.

And praise—
With grace born of lifting other faces
toward a fingernail of moon,
be Thine.

kyle_lehmanMr. Lehman is a teacher and poet who loves to watch things grow, like seeds, strange ideas, hay bales, and the moon.

Grace Weaver: At Midnight

(This breathless stillness—
I must, I will break free!)
Now lucent to my eye
the purple light of glory
peeking through my shades.

Gliding from darker musings
shrouded in pain,
I will not stay, but hover,
flitting like a moonbeam through the trees,
and float starward to earth’s summit.
See the tree tops roll and sing
like green waves on a sea,
and stillness rustles in the deep
of the ocean woods around me.
As every fern delights to breath this grace,
I’ll wrap me close in balmy summerness,
and lay me down to sleep;
the choicest pillow pales beside this earth,
for, oh, what heavy peace
has settled in the dew tonight.

6/8/16

Grace_Weaver_ProfileMiss Weaver is an artist and poet who is not at peace unless she is creating beauty and harmony.

Claudia Esh: The Bonfire

A piece of star has fallen here,
I think. We rimmed it round with stones
and fed it trees. Oh, how it burns—
what passion in those frenzied golden wings
that struggle skyward!
Tonight it seems
the universe is bathed in song and flame—
even this crust of earth is stretched so thin
around a seething mass of molten rock
glowing within the false peace of the hills.

Between the pulsing stars and whirling sparks
my soul alone is hushed, a spring enclosed,
in wrinkled shadows hid—shocked by desire—
Oh, heart! I know, I know why little moths
forget themselves and rush into the fire!

claudiaMiss Esh loves exploring the world of words, teaching children, and feels most at home in the woods.

Kenneth Godoy: The Road to Sinjar

The road runs parallel to the stricken earth;
it’s a strip the stars forgot;
they fled with those that survived Sinjar. The hatred of the sun bakes this land where women were
sold for a farthing or more.

And beside it, on every light pole strung to the tops
are the head shots of those who gave their bodies
to be sacrificed
and riddled and rotted.

And only the highway remembers them,
and the scrub weeds
and the occasional dusty Nissan with men inside clutching their AKs and cigarette butts or otherwise drown.

 

kennyOf his writing, Mr. Godoy says, “Poetry is bound to my soul.”

Conrad Martin: I Wandered Through a Land of Silent Hills

I wandered through a land of silent hills.
(The land is lost—nor where, nor name, nor why)
A grass-blown emptiness of wind-soft silences—
An endless prairie swept into an endless sky.

The rounding summits flowed into the falling sun,
And slopes leaned long into the dying light.
The sky was lifting, falling out into the sky,
The darkness opened in upon the night.

There was, alone upon a hill, a tree—
Stark standing in that sweeping, empty land.
Into the dark his cragging branches rose—
Into the far—an empty, reaching hand.

The land is lost—I cannot tell you more—
And yet I beg you, show me what it meant;
That upward, outward reach— what was that tree?
That worshipping—that ceaseless discontent?

All night the stars flowed through those fingertips.
All night, a shimmering ecstasy of pain
Burned cold upon the reverent edge of impudence
Along those branches, spreadingly insane.

Struck deep into the black of stars clawed forth
A blacker silhouette of empty space.
Stretched forth a desperate, drawing grasp—
wild lines flung wildly into heaven’s face.

Bent down unbending heights and snapped
The lines of thought, hurled back the reach of sight
Furled through the night, toward the soul
rushed fury of an unapproaching light.

Release at dawn, by violence.
A wound—a limp—within the thought, a rent.
A blessing wrenched from peace—an aching joy.
The silence of a ceaseless discontent.

—5/21/2016

portrait on brickMr. Martin loves words for their ability to create deeper awareness and experience of life through connection between minds and hearts.

Obi Martin: Morning Poem

Raise me free like summer breezes
wrenched from off the lawn.
Lift me like evaporation
break me like the dawn.

Wick me with your wind strokes,
daylight feathers dust my day.
Stream me with your sunshine;
braze me with your ray.

Paint me torrid like the morning,
bristling brilliant on the rise.
Beat me with your wingspan;
brush me broad across the skies.


Obi_ProfileMr. Martin’s values of vitality and expression inform and influence his interests and use of language and literature.