It is for all‘literalists of the imagination,’poets or not,that miracleis possible and essential.Are some intricate mindsnourished on concept,as epiphytes flourishhigh in the canopy?Can theysubsist on the light,on the halfof metaphor
Easter. The grave clothes of winterare still here, but the sepulchreis empty. A messengerfrom the tomb tells ushow a stone has been rolledfrom the mind, and a tree lightensthe darkness
Desdichado —This is the heir; come let us kill him.—Who is this that cometh up from the wilderness, leaning on her Beloved?Christ walks the world again, His lute upon His
Make no mistake: if He rose at allit was as His body;if the cells’ dissolution did not reverse, the moleculesreknit, the amino acids rekindle,the Church will fall..It was not as
(A Resurrection Poem in Pidgin English)by Funmilola Awogbade Dem put am for tomb, lock am wella,Dem tink say na di end be dat. But early momo, E rise from di
Anglo-Saxon, 8th century, trans. Richard Hammer (1970)The earliest Christian poem in English The Rood (cross of Christ) speaks: “It was long past – I still remember it –That I was cut
I. My God, my God, have mercy on my sin,For it is great; and if I should beginTo tell it all, the day would be too smallTo tell it in.
In Flanders Fields By John McCrae In Flanders fields the poppies blowBetween the crosses, row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, flyScarce heard amid
Brass Spittoons By Langston Hughes Clean the spittoons, boy. Detroit, Chicago, Atlantic City, Palm Beach.Clean the spittoons.The steam in hotel kitchens,And the smoke in hotel lobbies,And the slime in hotel spittoons:Part of my life. Hey, boy! A
The Virgin By William Wordsworth Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrostWith the least shade of thought to sin allied.Woman! above all women glorified,Our tainted nature’s solitary boast;Purer than foam on central
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