Holy Heathen Rhapdsody

By Pattiann Rogers

“Pattiann Rogers is a visionary of fact, perceiving the cloth international with such depth of reaction that impulse, goal, that means, interconnections past the outside of visual appeal are published. Her language, unmarred by way of clichés, springs up out of a feeling of ways numerous and eternally extraordinary are the varieties of lifestyles and the human skill to note them.” — Denise Levertov

Pattiann Rogers has gained acclaim as essentially the most unique voices in modern American poetry. The poems in her new assortment, Holy Heathen Rhapsody, embody and embrace the forces of the Earth and the inventive strength of its lifeforms in all of the wildness in their types. Love in those poems is a strength infused with an identical inventive energy and depth, the purest manifestation of the will-to-be. This imaginative and prescient and its making contend that even a shadow or a floating seed, a frond of eco-friendly or a dead night spider, even a mongrel puppy, wind over water, the human voice, the human witness, peace and guns, all?"every point and have encountered?"are totally endowed gamers within the dynamic track of the Earth.

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Take into accout and take note. every one barb of each feather, each black-tipped ivory hair, each luminous scale and fan-like fin, every one knuckle of backbone and nail, every one crimson drop on the pith of the marrow, on the root of all glare and mettle, each breath quiver, each one, each one, is beheld and declared. THE SNOW of items I don’t understand if Jesus ever walked in snow, via a typhoon of snow blowing icy items stinging opposed to his face, in his eyes, snow melting and freezing back in his hair till it hung in stiff cords on his shoulders, opposed to his brow. I’ve by no means visible him pictured that approach. I don’t understand if he ever witnessed snow, Jesus the Christ wrapped in gowns that couldn’t retain out a wintry weather wind of the mildest style. He may have needed to swaddle his toes and sandals in layers of material to stroll via the snow of a mountain go, utilizing his employees alongside the narrows of slippery rocky paths. as soon as in a could typhoon, I observed a hummingbird soaring momentarily outdoor the window, stuck in a past due spring freeze and snow-filled fog. He was once tiny iridescent feathers of eco-friendly and rose. He used to be a flittering bead of residing colour commencing opposed to the grey monument of iciness. i'm wondering if humans could have undefined Jesus, hiking a mountain during the snow, accumulating round him there to pay attention, the wind screaming its personal beatitudes, whipping up unexpected gusts and shifts of snow descending back over them like evening. Hooded, crouched down shut jointly and sleeted with snow, they could have resembled a flock of sheep huddled at the hillside. as soon as I observed a piece of artwork mendacity deserted within the hoarfrost and snow of a wooded area clearing, Van Gogh’s Starry evening mendacity frayed between the stiff and damn grasses, that deep swirling blue sky of bursting suns and splitting stars slowly being buried via pearl on icy pearl of flow. He can have instructed them the myth of the blindness of snow-filled fogs and white-outs, or the myth of the linking prisms and styles of any unmarried flake, or the myth of the transfiguration by way of snow of needles, thorns, and jagged stones. The breath of his phrases may well were noticeable as a holy ghost of heat within the paralysis of that killing chilly. I don’t understand if Jesus ever witnessed snow. it could by no means have snowed in Galilee, even though it is written that he rose to heaven in “raiments white as snow. ” WHITEOUT: THE DISAPPEARANCE OF IMPOSSIBILITIES whatever may seem to me the following now, jogging during this obfuscation of snow and fog, a real snowstorm, if the wind have been speedier. completely veiled, I circulation on legs I can’t see, parting unending displays and doors of chilling silk and ice-threaded smoke. A black swan may well drift earlier than me at any second, a hand’s breadth from my face, rising without notice via this good alabaster, a swan so black it’s an insignificant emptiness of chook, an ideal absence of itself. i may simply continue, getting into the autumn of its physique, its wings spreading into their very own deep hollows because it vanishes with me.

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