36 Views of Augustana — a Renga

Vince:             The morning sun spies

                        unread books upon a desk.

                        The night was too short.
 

Coleman:       Study cannot prompt brilliance;

                        ingenuity is a lightning strike.

Rikki:              Awaken in a panic

                        recalling times of procrastination.

                        Luck’s all that’s needed.
 

Jess:                Crisp, white paper on a table

                        cast from broken leaves.

Alice:              Outside, snow glistens.

                        Footprints are words on a page

                        which must now be written.

Ashley:           Paper is without purpose

                        until pen unites with it.

Ashley:           Forget excuses,

                        professors know all of them;

                        efforts are futile.

Brittany:         Efficiency reducing,

                        hot coffee being drunk.

Anton:            Another good night  

                        means another tough morning.

                        That’s college for you.

Andrew:         The sluggish start is combatted,

                        a brisk caffeine breeze.

Keely:             Stagger out the door,

                        Gatorade in travel mug.

                        I’m sober enough.

Louise:           Bag is heavy,

                        running out of balance, late again.

Andrew:         Timing is the essence of now,

                        no questions have been asked,

                        all the sports are privileged.

Alice:              Too early for thinking.

                        Must try my hardest regardless. Ugh.

Alice:               Answer the question.

                        "There's no such thing as wrong here."           

                         Or so they say. Lies.

Brittany:         Searching for life

                        a fireplace burns bright.

Anton:            Ideas blaze strong

                        creativity a foe—

                        struggle no more. Phew.

Coleman:       For academia’s struggles

                        knowledge is a fine prize.

Coleman:       Sage wisdom, a small fee,

                        scholars push for integrity.

                        Pupils: vessels for light.

Louise:            Rushing to and fro.

                        The Forum becoming a pedway.

Ashley:           Necks twist left and right

                        as athletes fight for the win;

                        cheers inspire them.

Rikki:               School spirit unites us.

                        We hang off the edge of our seats.

Brittany:         Seated in long rows

                        Remember, forget, write

                        Empty thoughts like clouds

Anton:            Vikings pride wells up—

                        measureless camaraderie!

Vince:             Standing together

                        finding a community

                        yet also alone.

Keely:             There’s no money for you

                        go find your own funds.

Brittany:         Snowman being built in quad

                        dance sans alcohol

                        always trying to save a buck

Brittany:         Too many activities

                        Yoga for thirty days? Nah.

Anton:            First year fun fades fast.

                        Humans and zombies. No thanks.

                        Maturity sucks.
 

Jess:                Escape tiny dorm rooms

                        run straight into capstones.

Jess:                Brain power failing

                        crawl towards the finish line

                        Did we choose this?

Louise:            Four years later,

                        still not enough.

Rikki:               Time passes quickly

                        so many new faces

                        friendships that last lifetimes.

Keely:              Martin Luther, you’re my friend

                        You at least will still be here.

Alice:               Martin wears fuzzy scarves

                        and Santa hats in winter.

                        And once, a toilet seat.

Vince:              Sun sinks on the Ravine
                         see it again tomorrow.


February 24-26, 2014
 

National Department of Poetry, from Brittany

Anton's Glosa

If Only it was a Dream

Hold fast to dreams

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Dreams - Langston Hughes

My son is still young

He asks me many questions

I wish he wouldn’t

I wish I had his view still

All the answers

They are the beams

To the cathedral of curiosity

And I the monstrosity

It begins ripping at the seams

Hold fast to dreams

He is older now

But still holds my hand

I wish he wouldn’t

If beauty never appeared

Would we miss it when it left?

I think about my little guy

And his little hand

And if I could stand

If I ever had to say goodbye

For if dreams die

I am a man full of regret

My son reminds me

I wish he wouldn’t

He lives the life I lived

No complaints and yet

The pain needn’t be heard

I know I failed my son

With the deeds I’ve done

And how he hung onto every word

Life is a broken-winged bird

My son is grown and gone

Made a life somewhere far away

I once wished he would

A son of his own

His wishes and hopes

And though he may try

To excuse me for my blunders

I hope there are many wonders

For his own little guy

That cannot fly.

Anton Paszek 

Vince's Glosa

Glose on “Porcupine”

A plump, dark lady                       

wearing a gown of nails—

white teeth tearing skin

from the thick tree.

Mary Oliver

You speak of her as

one that you would know

to understand her

to know her world and

grasp her place in it

it is not shady

this desire pure.

The natural world

the realm ungainly,

a plump, dark lady.

You respect the spirit

and you bless the creature

though she could be seen as

inconvenient by some.

I have caused harm to

her relations that pales

my soul and grieves my heart

to the point of weeping;

their defence always fails,

wearing a gown of nails.

Protecting the dog

or saving the trees

she and her kin are

seen as marauders,

as dangers well known.

The reason is thin

for the end of lives

they haven’t a word

for this kind of sin

white teeth tearing skin

So much harm I

I have caused

so I offer

penance for the—

the lives lost through

crimes by me.

I give thanks for

this poem that,

I can give plea

from the thick tree

Vincent Seeger

Brittany's Glosa

The Experience of Prayer 

To pray you open your whole self

To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon

To one whole voice that is you.

And know there is more

“Eagle” by Joy Harjo

Prayer is as much experience as an event,

it flows and fills even the secret parts deep inside.

You cannot be closed off to spirit when you pray;

remember your physical body is not the only body,

remember that when you pray you use all of your being.

Prayer is not something found in a Bible on a shelf

or something you can pretend that you are doing.

In order to truly experience prayer,

you must employ both physical and spiritual self.

To pray you open your whole self

not just the parts that look good to everyone else.

Some think prayer only takes place in church

and that in order to pray there must be present the trinity.

You open yourself up to so much more than theology,

to prescriptions of religion and penance.

You dwell in the ground beneath your feet, the sun at noon,

the natural world and all its elements,

what is found in the intricacies of a spider’s web

and in the haunted call of the loon.

To sky, to earth, to sun, to moon

you call, and you answer when they speak to you.

The languid swirl of burning sweetgrass

carries your prayers up to the Creator,

allows you to communicate with those who have gone before.

You become a part of something deeper;

through prayer you discover what makes I and me, you.

The truth is that you cannot understand who you are

until you experience whole self prayer,

that moment when the one whole voice of nature sings true

To one whole voice that is you.

The first taste of the vastness of prayer

will leave you longing for your next journey.

You will smell your hair for the sweet smoke,

remembering the completeness of the experience.

Prayer is not to be taken lightly,

and it is not something you can ignore;

Each time you will learn more about yourself

and about the world which surrounds you.

Prayer takes time but you leave wiser than before,

And know there is more.

– Brittany Lehman

Jess's Glosa

The self-same moment I could pray;

And from my neck so free

The Albatross fell off, and sank

Like lead into the sea.

                        “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner”, Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The grey foaming waves

make for miles of distraction,

a boundless rocking in anguish.

How do you find stillness

in a place always moving?

There is little time for peace

when so much needs to be done,

and I am driven to desperation

by the motion that does not cease

to find the one moment I can seize

The self-same moment I could pray;

I wanted to be lifted

to be told it wasn’t mine to carry,

not my burden alone.

I wanted help and found

freedom in the asking,

in admitting I couldn’t stop the sea.

I gave up trying to hold back the waves,

trying to repair the pain I had caused

and admitted to what I could not be

as I turned to look above me

And from my neck so free

After scraping at the weight

I carried for my crime

I surrendered to its presence

and found it gone.

I don’t deserve this grace,

for what I’ve done

I should still be suffering

still tossed in confined space

locked in my prison’s embrace, but

The Albatross fell off, and sank

Its weight remained

though not around me,

lost into the rocking waves.

I thought I’d find stillness

but it’s not there,

not on top of a moving platform.

Every motion is a reminder

the deaths I caused, at least

my albatross kept me warm

now it’s gone from my storm

Like lead into the sea.

Coleman's Glosa

When wilt thou save the people?

Oh, God of mercy! when?

Not kings and lords, but nations!

Not thrones and crowns, but men!

-Ebenezer Elliott

Oh God, we are the lost mortals;

our sole distress is of our souls.

Our eyes behold no small hurdles:

and the people will not go alone.

We see no path through the fog and

distrust the flight of the seagull.

Lead this horse to water. Lord,

we fear not hands, but idle minds.

Our solemn cries seize the steeple:

When wilt thou save the people?

Our thoughts are corralled like sheep;

too much heaven on our minds.

Our cries are pitiful but no less loud

we shamble blind through our fog.

Because we refuse to see,

we entrust our sight to wisemen

and we have no faith in medicine.

Oh God! Save us from ourselves!

Oh God, if not now then, when?

Oh, God of mercy! when?

Still we are given no reply?

Just a song to rally behind.

An anthem for the people, Lord?

Should we instead speak for ourselves?

Endeavour for a fearless world

where we destroy man’s reservations?

Forward to meet eras unknown!

We will cry from the battlements:

Equality for all stations!

Not kings and lords, but nations!

Now, do not be frightened, Lord.

Go! You must tend to the Queen.

Perhaps God’s greatest gift

is to remain unseen.

We cast off fear of some idle sin;

the people will anoint their judges, again.

The people’s empire on the rubble of yours,

The people without sin or strife or wars! 

It is the people you will look to then!

Not thrones and crowns, but men!

Andrew's Glosa

My heart leaps up when I behold 
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began; 
So is it now I am a man;

            -from “My Heart Leaps Up” by William Wordsworth

Every time you weep, I

am filled with envy of

each tear that graces your cheek

then falls dead. I could

not dream of a sweeter end

to the life that I was told

was not built by things that glitter.

But with every glance, all I see

is a face that shines like silver

and a soul that’s made of gold.

My heart leaps when I behold.

Every time you dance, I

am dizzied with life. A blood

rush so red that all colors quiver

in its sight, floods each and every

chamber of my being. Dazed and

drained no matter how hard I try

I cannot grasp what’s real as

my desire is so heavy and my

head is so light. I swear can fly

to a rainbow in the sky.

Every time you sing, I

am wind swept and war torn.

Like a kite or a flag battered

and tattered to the point of

no return. My senses ripped up and

mended by the only voice that can.

Those songs ring and roar, giving breath

to those that hear them. Like fuel for a

tiny spark of life left without a plan.

So was it when my life began.

Every time you die, I

am left to wonder about

the child that is the father

of the man. I am sure that there

is a place, where together we could

cross the void that we must span.

If there isn’t, I’ll simply wander past

every stream from which we drank

and every field through which we ran.
So it is now I am a man.

Louise's Glosa

All in the Skin

More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin

           

More and More-Margaret Atwood

I used to constantly wonder,

why people whispered when I appeared.

Was it just me, being paranoid

I thought that I was no different.

But a part of me feels it,

is it me? my skin?

Deep in my soul I make pledges

More and more frequently the edges.

I lived my life as any child would

playing, drawing, whenever I could.  

It was fun, speaking my language

At age five I said something

and they laughed, 

not bothering to teach me; some

of me dissolve and I become

Somewhat in a shell,

even though I know I am not shy,

at times I think this is a lie.

In the white schools I felt no different

although my family they said we were protruding

in the residential school,

a wish to assimilate the world, including

all other nations.

It was hard trying to learn

to move your lips in the form of a prayer;

one you never heard before.

Or if you were caught cheating

you definitely received a beating.

Even with the strap,

there was no way to save your kin;

you, if possible through the skin.

Louise Omeasoo

Ashley's Glosa

Ashley’s Glosa Poem

Let us honor, if we can,

The vertical man,

Though we value none

But the horizontal one.

--W. H. Auden

Horizontal Man

Sacrifices must be made

to maintain a society

and the lives within it.

Love and pride

are all a man needs

in order to raise his hand.

Strength and will

provide what is necessary

for a man to keep going.

Let us honor, if we can.

The vertical man has much to gain

from giving thanks to those who gave.

He has a family, he has a life,

he has freedoms and many rights.

He is proud to live in such a country

but takes for granted all he has.

He does not know that his quality of life

was a gift that was not easily attained.

He is ignorant of the value of what he has by right,         

The vertical man.

The horizontal man fulfilled his duty,

He did what was necessary, bearing the consequences.

If not for him, we would not be living

the life that we value and find comfort in.

His debt to society is now society’s to bear.

We attempt to repay him with flowers and occasional remembrances.

It is a debt that can be paid, but never in full.

We know that he protected us.

We are told of the freedoms that he gave to us,

Though we value none.

We travel the world freely

and say what we please.

Our values are protected

and our lives are secure.

Yet we never stop to wonder

how we attained the freedom we enjoy

and remember the man who fought for it.

We forget to bow our heads

and look down to thank

The horizontal one.