Ziggurat of Shinar

Ziggurat (and Helix)

by Amy Chai

It was never the fruit that mattered. Sweet flesh
of apricot only hid a stone
smelling of bitter almond.
We split that fruit without tasting;
now bursting seed will divide hardened earth, baked brick;
eastward, on the plains of Shinar.

Dry plains in the ancient places remember
fired clay and tar-jointed steps.
Our tower is pitched in spiral links; this stair
will ascend right-handed to God’s heaven.
Twist life’s coil taut in the hidden place;
it will fall back on itself 
like a serpent, ready to strike.

O Mighty Hunter! We have reached for your shadow:
Now translate for us in a tongue
no longer ours or your own.
Before you fly to Assyria, tell us:
Did you touch the sky?

Reflections in time...

Here are 5 poems by Matushka Elizabeth Perdomo. They are excellent!

Four of her poems have been published at Students Publish Here. You will enjoy her work.

Poem for Georgia O'Keeffe

Tewa Feast Day

Hill Country Highway

Anthropologic Study of True Myths

Sin's Solvent

A High Demand

I looked and saw a Light so true,

  That covered blushes to my face,

And made me cower in the shadow with shame,

  Yea, shame for my sinful race.

It was no maiden blush-indeed!

  My heart quickened it was true,

But it was because the righteous Man I loved,

  His footsteps mockingly saying, “they come not for you.”

I cowered in the doorway,

  Yet snatched His face, and locked it in my heart.

For though how could He love a worm as I?

  My heart so pierced with worldly dart.

But as I lay, in misery,

  My Love did not pass me by,
But drew me up, and smiling said,

  “Maiden, why do you sigh?”

But I sprang from His touch, so gentle and pure,

  Yet burning as if from flame.

For that very reason; His righteousness,

  Kept me from even speaking His Name!

So I whispered, not daring to up look,

  And see His shining face,

But said, in sadness, oh how deep?

  “Oh, sir, I cannot accept Your grace.

For how high a demand, oh yes, how true!

  To offer up my heart so ill,

So scarred, so deep, so black with sin,

  Yet longing to find You still.”

I then dared, to see His face,

  The face I love so well.

And found only pity without contempt,

  And into His lightening eyes I fell.

He spoke of love, so deep and true,

  A solvent for my dark sin,

Healing oil to purge, and hyssop pure;

  His mansion I would dwell therein.

So I whispered to my Love,

  so deeply aware of my sin,

“Sir, to accept You, must not I be pure?

  And if not, could I ever come in?

Mistake me not, Sir, (my Love so dear),

  I would come into Your mansion above,

If a mire of despair and a book of sins,

  Did not overshadow my love.”

But again, I dared to see His face,

  And look upon Those eyes,

That told me that I am welcomed there,

  And to dry my tears and ease my sighs.

He set a crown on my head,

  And His throne He took me to,

But with joy, not pain, I threw down my crown,

 And cried out, “My Lord, it is You!”

--Chandler Hamby

Spirituality-lite a Hot Commodity

Bronwyn Lea

At first glance the phrase ‘best-selling poetry book’ looks oxymoronic. Anyone with a vague sense of book publishing is acquainted with the orthodoxy that poetry doesn’t sell: readers don’t want to read it.

Commercial publishers have used this pearl to justify curtailing or, more dramatically, cancelling their poetry lists. Booksellers have relied on it as a way of explaining away – to the few who might enquire – their thin and often uninspired poetry stock. And who can blame them? Publishers and booksellers are not in the business of charity.

But all this bellyaching conceals an interesting fact: some poetry books actually do sell. Some sell very well indeed. Some poetry books are even bestsellers.

Immediately Shakespeare struts upon the stage. And in fact Shakespeare is the best-selling poet in English of all time. The author of – at least as we are able to count his works today – 38 plays, 154 sonnets, two long narrative poems and a handful of others, Shakespeare has been generating sales in a proliferation of editions for the past 400 years.

But what about poetry sales not mounted over time, but poetry titles that sell well in a single year? Well, things get interesting.

Figures out of the United Sates – a significant market for literature in English – do not rank Shakespeare as number one on their bestseller list for poetry. The best-selling poet in America today is not only dead but he – let gender be no surprise – he didn’t write in English and he’s not an American.

The prize for best-selling poet in America goes to a poet in translation: Jalal al-Din Molavi Rumi. A Sufi poet known to Iranians as Mawlana. Or, to Westerners, simply as Rumi.

Rumi was born in Balkh (now in Afghanistan) in 1207, but he lived most of his life in the town of Konya, in what is now Turkey. His major work is a six-volume poem,Masnavi-ye Manavi (Spiritual Couplets), regarded by some Sufis as the Persian-language Qur'an. Rumi’s general theme is the concept of tawhid – union with his beloved – and his longing to restore it. He writes:

There’s a strange frenzy in my head,
of birds flying,
each particle circulating on its own.
Is the one I love everywhere?

Judging by sales, Rumi’s voice touches the contemporary reader with the same fervour as it did 700 ago. It touches celebrities too: Madonna set his poems to music on Deepak Chopra’s 1998 CD, A Gift of Love. Donna Karan has used recitations of his poetry as a background to her fashion shows; Philip Glass has written an opera – Monsters of Grace – around his poems; and Oliver Stone apparently wants to make a film of his life.

American poet Coleman Barks, perhaps more than anyone, is responsible for bringing Rumi’s poetry to the English-speaking masses. Barks is not a scholar – and he doesn’t speak a word of Persian. But this didn’t stop his book, The Essential Rumi (HarperCollins 1995), from being the most successful poetry book published in the West in recent years.

Coleman has come out with a new book of Rumi translations every September for the past decade. Even the 9/11 attacks didn’t subdue the public’s interest in mystical Islamic verse: Coleman’s The Soul of Rumi, released days after the Trade Centre bombings, went on to become a bestseller. Barks himself seems surprised by his sales and confesses:

“I once calculated that Rumi books sell at least a hundred a day right through weekends and holidays, while my own writing goes at about twelve copies a month, worldwide. In other words, Rumi’s work sells at about 365,000 copies a year; Barks sells 144. Those numbers keep me humble.”

Rumi is popular not only in America but also in Australia. Nevertheless his book sales – Barks’s translations as well as other scholarly editions – fall short of granting him primacy. Neilsen BookScan, which records book sales in Australia since 2002, reveals twentieth-century Lebanese poet, Khalil Gibran, as the clear favourite.

Born in 1883 in Bsharii in modern-day northern Lebanon, Gibran died of liver failure at the age of 48 in New York. The Prophet, his first book, was published in 1923. Its fame spread by word of mouth. By 1931 it had been translated into 20 languages, and in the 60s it was a hit with American youth culture. It’s been popular ever since.

In the fictional set up for The Prophet, Almustafa has lived for 12 years in the foreign city of Orphalese and is heading home when a group of people stop him. He offers to share his wisdom on an array of issues pertaining to life and the human condition: love, marriage, children, giving, eating and drinking, work, joy and sorrow, houses, crime and punishment, beauty, death and so on. The chapter on marriage is perhaps the best known, as it’s a regular in wedding ceremonies. A testament to love (and an argument against co-dependence), it concludes:

Give your hearts but not into each other’s keeping.
For only the hand of Life can contain your hearts.
And stand together yet not too near together:
For the pillars of the temple stand apart,
And the oak tree and they cypress grow not in each other’s shadow.

It’s interesting to consider why Rumi and Gibran are so popular with the reading public. Surely it’s not a matter of quality.

We live in an age where spirituality-lite is a hot commodity in the marketplace. (Rumi himself is not ‘lite’ – he was a devoted Muslim and a respected theologian – but Barks’s bestselling translations have bowdlerised almost every reference to Islam from his poems.) As Western culture has become increasingly secularised and a widespread suspicion of organised religion pervades, it seems many readers have turned to the mystical poem as a vehicle for contemplation.

But thinking about bestselling poetry, there’s one more quality worth mentioning.

Laughter. In terms of sales for an individual poetry title, the second ranked poetry title in Australia is Michael Leunig’s Poems (Viking 2004). Which goes to show that while Australian readers like thinking about God, they have retained a sense of humour.

Bronwyn Lea does not work for, consult to, own shares in or receive funding from any company or organisation that would benefit from this article, and has no relevant affiliations. This article was originally published at The Conversation. Read the original article.

Temptation in the Wilderness

Temptation in the Wired Wilderness

by Holly Ordway

Our Lord spent forty days and forty nights
Resisting Satan in the wilderness.
We picture barren rocks and sand; we might
Add in a scrubby tree or two. I guess
That’s where temptation ought to come, so we
Can see it from at least a mile away,
And be prepared, with Bibles, church retreats,
And exhortations to stand firm.

Instead it wounds with cuts too small to see,
In this our wired wilderness. We play
And work in deserts of the digital:
Abuzz with locust-noise of clicks and tweets
And filled with lonely crowds. Our enemy
Is faced and fought right here, or not at all.

Poem about a Wounded Healer

Missa Solemnis 

by Eugene E. Lemcio

Each Sunday morning,
the Chief of Staff
at Horeb State Hospital
dons safe-green vestments
and waits for sounds of gurney wheels.
Gravely, an acolyte
delivers an internee
whose dwarf-like form
is one-third head.

The ritual begins on time.
Tremulous arms are crossed
upon the heaving chest
by firm, expected hands.
Next, the priest proceeds
with practiced, tender strokes:
tracing familiar lobes and cranial gullies,
and then cradling the great ellipse
until the quaking stops.

And, fathoms within,
imaged on synaptic screens
ten billion neurons squared,
a monstrous pterodactyl
soars high above defiant waves--
then, plunge-plummeting
dives, hovers and
with blue-veined, leathery wings
caresses and soothes
her watery globe
to roost and rest.

1984 (rev. 2009, 2010)

*In honor of Dr. Leon McCleery, a healer wounded by hydrocephalus as an infant

Originally published in Perspectives in Biology and Medicine [University of Chicago Press], 28.3 (Spring 1985): 361

On Vain and Shallow Women

There are dainty woman who exhibit strength of character and depth and there are others who, though ladylike, are weak, shallow, vain and often manipulative. Here are two poems about the latter.


Epitaph for a Darling Lady

All her hours were yellow sands,
Blown in foolish whorls and tassels;
Slipping warmly through her hands;
Patted into little castles.

Shiny day on shiny day
Tumbled in a rainbow clutter,
As she flipped them all away,
Sent them spinning down the gutter.

Leave for her a red young rose,
Go your way, and save your pity;
She is happy, for she knows
That her dust is very pretty.

--Dorothy Parker



Hard to Love

Her world is tightly laced,
her house, a flawless nest,
her god, packed neatly on display
among the dusted china cups.
Nothing jagged,
nothing marred,
no ambiguities distress
her tea time pleasantries.
She smiles at my reply,
holding back a spearmint yawn
with her tissued hand.
I sip the fragile porcelain edge
and ask for grace to love my perfect neighbor.

--Alice C. Linsley
(Originally appeared in The Living Church, 1995)