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Post by MoonyLuna on Jan 15, 2009 11:39:47 GMT -5
Pilgrim Sonnet Beginning with a line of Hopkins
Pilgrims, still pilgrims, still come poor pilgrims, at night to bring the howling house a door, the burning man a sigh for his dry soul, the children rebel poems turned to hymns.
From shrine to shrine, and farm to field, they go for each of us who sleep in those enormous ghosts of clothes the wanted-for and to-dust- relinquished leave behind. They whisper zero
is a number too, and dip their hair in Nameless Creek and shout down to us the way to follow, one by one and O by O.
But by the morning we have not gone there. The houses shrill their vowels; the grass quails. There is no going, or a way to go.
Pilgrim Sonnet Redux Come poor pilgrims, There is no shrine, or a way to zero, Still pilgrims, still pilgrims, O by shrill and O by quail.
From Nameless Creek to Howling House Pilgrims go, dry souls, a wanted-for ghost For each of us who relinquish vowels Into morning dust, fields turned to hymns.
They shout us down for the way we have not gone there. They farm burning poems. They whisper in their rebel sleep.
Poor pilgrims, one by one, come— The enormous grass is the shrine. The door is the night you leave behind.
Copyright Andrew Grace
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Post by MoonyLuna on Jan 15, 2009 11:40:33 GMT -5
Featured Poet Andrew Grace
Andrew Grace, a former Wallace Stegner Fellow in Poetry at Stanford University, published his first book, A Belonging Field, with Salt Publishing in 2002. He currently lives in Berkeley.
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