andreasgripp.com
some poetry by Andreas Gripp
all poems (c) 2009 Andreas Gripp
some poetry by Andreas Gripp
all poems (c) 2009 Andreas Gripp
And Then There Was Light
With your hands wrist-deep
in fertile soil,
you tell me your daughter passed away
at break of dawn,
on a day that our star
rose without hindering cloud;
and you mused that early morning,
before you sadly went and found her,
stiff as a petrified trunk
and her unblinking eyes
locked upon the ceiling,
that to call it “sun” is a misnomer,
for it’s connected to Mother Earth,
and either “u” or “o”, it says the same
masculine thing.
It’s the female
that reproduces,
you said, gives seeds
a place to call home.
“Daughter,” you decreed,
call it Daughter.
It will surely love us more
and our weeping will be greater
on the days it isn’t there.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in T.O. Loveless &
other poems)
With your hands wrist-deep
in fertile soil,
you tell me your daughter passed away
at break of dawn,
on a day that our star
rose without hindering cloud;
and you mused that early morning,
before you sadly went and found her,
stiff as a petrified trunk
and her unblinking eyes
locked upon the ceiling,
that to call it “sun” is a misnomer,
for it’s connected to Mother Earth,
and either “u” or “o”, it says the same
masculine thing.
It’s the female
that reproduces,
you said, gives seeds
a place to call home.
“Daughter,” you decreed,
call it Daughter.
It will surely love us more
and our weeping will be greater
on the days it isn’t there.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in T.O. Loveless &
other poems)
Saturday
The backyard birds
have competition.
I came here
to hear them,
their morning melody,
rousing like a symphony
with a wind-blown branch
as baton,
small and so frail,
severed off a tree
by a sunrise gust
from the south.
The men next door
are re-roofing their house,
hammering shingles
while their radio blares
a wicked country brew:
a cacophony of twang
and Texas drawl,
with she’s-a leavin’ me
behind in muh tears
accompanied by their raucous
talk and the snap
of beer-in-a-can.
I pluck weeds from the garden,
ears straining
for the inimitable notes
of nature,
wishing the robins
could drown
the pedal steel,
the pedestrian
commercial pap,
that their crescendo
devour
the chorus of nails
and woe-is-me,
stain the fresh-laid black
with white
when they are finished.
taken from Anathema: Poems
Selected & New (original version
found in The Lesser Light)
The backyard birds
have competition.
I came here
to hear them,
their morning melody,
rousing like a symphony
with a wind-blown branch
as baton,
small and so frail,
severed off a tree
by a sunrise gust
from the south.
The men next door
are re-roofing their house,
hammering shingles
while their radio blares
a wicked country brew:
a cacophony of twang
and Texas drawl,
with she’s-a leavin’ me
behind in muh tears
accompanied by their raucous
talk and the snap
of beer-in-a-can.
I pluck weeds from the garden,
ears straining
for the inimitable notes
of nature,
wishing the robins
could drown
the pedal steel,
the pedestrian
commercial pap,
that their crescendo
devour
the chorus of nails
and woe-is-me,
stain the fresh-laid black
with white
when they are finished.
taken from Anathema: Poems
Selected & New (original version
found in The Lesser Light)
Raking Leaves with Anneliese
She holds open
translucent bags
as I heave
loads of coloured
leaves
into their crinkled,
plastic mouths
like a backhoe
dropping dirt
into a pit.
The Stasi
took my father
into the night,
she firmly sighs.
I sent letters
to the prison
but I never heard
a word.
I note golden,
scarlet foliage,
fallen
like unpicked apples.
Some have twisting
worms, limp
as flimsy laces
on my loosely-knotted
shoes.
She says mother
stays in sackcloth,
with a veil
that never lifts
in public places.
November’s
biting wind
scatters half
our work away,
our faces
turning numb
in waning light.
taken from Anathema: Poems
Selected & New (original version
found in Beads on Blossoms)
She holds open
translucent bags
as I heave
loads of coloured
leaves
into their crinkled,
plastic mouths
like a backhoe
dropping dirt
into a pit.
The Stasi
took my father
into the night,
she firmly sighs.
I sent letters
to the prison
but I never heard
a word.
I note golden,
scarlet foliage,
fallen
like unpicked apples.
Some have twisting
worms, limp
as flimsy laces
on my loosely-knotted
shoes.
She says mother
stays in sackcloth,
with a veil
that never lifts
in public places.
November’s
biting wind
scatters half
our work away,
our faces
turning numb
in waning light.
taken from Anathema: Poems
Selected & New (original version
found in Beads on Blossoms)
Nine
There’s a beauty to our numbers
that I note with admiration:
the shape of cipher 6
and its curving, crescent close;
8, with its weaving, double loop
that skaters strive and scratch to mimic;
3, and its ability to complete,
to divide as trilogy, to manifest
as Trinity.
1 which finds the wholeness
in itself, never wishing to flee
its core or essence,
for the sake of multiplying:
One times one times one
will always equal one.
2 is the sum of love
and the most romantic of all
our digits,
and in terms of teaching math,
it gives a break to all our children:
Two times two is four,
and the answer’s the same
when adding.
7 is Biblical,
the time for God’s creation,
the length of telling tales
of Harry Potter,
of Narnia,
the complement of 12.
5, the Books of Moses,
the fingers and thumb
on our hands,
giving us ability,
the gift of grasp
and molding, making shapes
from slabs of clay.
4, a pair of couplets,
the voice of poems
and song, the rhythm
and march of the saints.
Yet when I come to number 9,
my spirit starts to sink:
it has such lofty expectations,
aspiring to reach new levels,
only to fall so painfully short –
missing the mark of 10
by just a meagre, single stroke,
always being known for
“almost there,”
remembered for the glory
it could have gained
but never did,
its cousins –
19, 49, 69 –
bearing the brunt
of all its failings.
99 is but a stepping stone,
a grating lapse towards 100,
a number we only watch while it rolls,
a humble countdown to celebration,
unable to give us merit on its own.
I spent all of ’99
yearning for 2000,
anticipating a new millennium,
the fears, excitement
we thought awaited us
in a dawning, changing world,
never enjoying the year for what it was,
practicing the writing
of an exotic date –
January 1, 2000
and eager to see
the masthead of that early morning paper,
ridding myself of the nines
that only accentuate defeat,
thinking I’ll pass some kind of threshold,
a singing, flowered archway
bidding come, enter,
leave what troubles you
behind.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in Angel Clare)
There’s a beauty to our numbers
that I note with admiration:
the shape of cipher 6
and its curving, crescent close;
8, with its weaving, double loop
that skaters strive and scratch to mimic;
3, and its ability to complete,
to divide as trilogy, to manifest
as Trinity.
1 which finds the wholeness
in itself, never wishing to flee
its core or essence,
for the sake of multiplying:
One times one times one
will always equal one.
2 is the sum of love
and the most romantic of all
our digits,
and in terms of teaching math,
it gives a break to all our children:
Two times two is four,
and the answer’s the same
when adding.
7 is Biblical,
the time for God’s creation,
the length of telling tales
of Harry Potter,
of Narnia,
the complement of 12.
5, the Books of Moses,
the fingers and thumb
on our hands,
giving us ability,
the gift of grasp
and molding, making shapes
from slabs of clay.
4, a pair of couplets,
the voice of poems
and song, the rhythm
and march of the saints.
Yet when I come to number 9,
my spirit starts to sink:
it has such lofty expectations,
aspiring to reach new levels,
only to fall so painfully short –
missing the mark of 10
by just a meagre, single stroke,
always being known for
“almost there,”
remembered for the glory
it could have gained
but never did,
its cousins –
19, 49, 69 –
bearing the brunt
of all its failings.
99 is but a stepping stone,
a grating lapse towards 100,
a number we only watch while it rolls,
a humble countdown to celebration,
unable to give us merit on its own.
I spent all of ’99
yearning for 2000,
anticipating a new millennium,
the fears, excitement
we thought awaited us
in a dawning, changing world,
never enjoying the year for what it was,
practicing the writing
of an exotic date –
January 1, 2000
and eager to see
the masthead of that early morning paper,
ridding myself of the nines
that only accentuate defeat,
thinking I’ll pass some kind of threshold,
a singing, flowered archway
bidding come, enter,
leave what troubles you
behind.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in Angel Clare)
November Rose
It's a Jane or Johnny-come-lately,
the solitary rose in my garden,
a harvest holdover or belated bloom
that's risen when the others have died.
It has none to compete for attention,
isn't lost in a sea of red.
I ponder its predicament,
think of it as lonely,
regretting it didn't blossom sooner
when the buzz of flying insects
were droning their affection.
I'll water it in the evening,
as stars speck the sky in Autumn's cool.
I'll sing it to sleep
as I retire,
pray for grace
should the frost strike swift.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected &
New (original version found in T.O. Loveless
& other poems)
It's a Jane or Johnny-come-lately,
the solitary rose in my garden,
a harvest holdover or belated bloom
that's risen when the others have died.
It has none to compete for attention,
isn't lost in a sea of red.
I ponder its predicament,
think of it as lonely,
regretting it didn't blossom sooner
when the buzz of flying insects
were droning their affection.
I'll water it in the evening,
as stars speck the sky in Autumn's cool.
I'll sing it to sleep
as I retire,
pray for grace
should the frost strike swift.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected &
New (original version found in T.O. Loveless
& other poems)
The Language of Sparrows
Your sister is dead.
We plant seedlings
by her grave in April,
when Spring seduces
with all its promise,
moisten the ground
with a jug of water
and say how, years from now,
a bush will burst and flower,
be home to a family of sparrows,
each knowing the other by name.
I ask you if birds have names,
like Alice, Brent, Jessica and James,
if mother and father bird
call them in when it rains,
say settle here in branches
amid the leaves that keep you dry –
not in English, mind you,
or any other human tongue
but in the language of sparrows;
each trill, each warbling,
a repartee,
a crafted conversation of the minds.
I then notice
that we never see the birds
when it rains,
how they disappear in downpours,
seeking shelter
in something we simply cannot see.
When we’re old,
when we come to remember
the loved one that you’ve lost,
they’ll be shielded in our shrub,
not a short and stunted one,
but a grand, blessed growth,
like the one that spoke to Moses,
aflame, uttering
I AM WHO I AM,
one that towers,
dense with green,
a monument to the
sister you treasured
and to the birds
that she adored,
naming the formerly fallowed, hallowed,
sacred, remove your shoes,
Spirits and Sparrows dwell
and whisper secrets
we’re unworthy to hear.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original and earlier versions found in The
Language of Sparrows and Angel Clare)
Your sister is dead.
We plant seedlings
by her grave in April,
when Spring seduces
with all its promise,
moisten the ground
with a jug of water
and say how, years from now,
a bush will burst and flower,
be home to a family of sparrows,
each knowing the other by name.
I ask you if birds have names,
like Alice, Brent, Jessica and James,
if mother and father bird
call them in when it rains,
say settle here in branches
amid the leaves that keep you dry –
not in English, mind you,
or any other human tongue
but in the language of sparrows;
each trill, each warbling,
a repartee,
a crafted conversation of the minds.
I then notice
that we never see the birds
when it rains,
how they disappear in downpours,
seeking shelter
in something we simply cannot see.
When we’re old,
when we come to remember
the loved one that you’ve lost,
they’ll be shielded in our shrub,
not a short and stunted one,
but a grand, blessed growth,
like the one that spoke to Moses,
aflame, uttering
I AM WHO I AM,
one that towers,
dense with green,
a monument to the
sister you treasured
and to the birds
that she adored,
naming the formerly fallowed, hallowed,
sacred, remove your shoes,
Spirits and Sparrows dwell
and whisper secrets
we’re unworthy to hear.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original and earlier versions found in The
Language of Sparrows and Angel Clare)
The Decoy,
or Why No One Takes Me Hunting Anymore
My hunter friend,
the one I haven’t converted
to my “animals-have-feelings-too”
frame of mind,
uses a wooden decoy
in attempts to lure some ducks,
the painted, smiling duplicate
successful in its duty:
three already shot today,
bagged and ready to carve.
If objects
had living souls,
I wonder how it would feel:
a traitor,
causing the death
of what it mimics,
floating on water
like a wannabe bird,
even feign it could fly
if it wanted to,
have its pick
of choicest mates;
like Pinocchio,
eager to be turned into the real thing,
hoping its
rifle-bearing Gepetto
will make it flesh and bone,
allow a brook of blood to pump
throughout its winding veins,
pray it might even bring salvation
to this hunter’s calloused heart,
spot a chance
at its own redemption,
have its maker
see its feathered shape
as something
more than food.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in Angel Clare)
or Why No One Takes Me Hunting Anymore
My hunter friend,
the one I haven’t converted
to my “animals-have-feelings-too”
frame of mind,
uses a wooden decoy
in attempts to lure some ducks,
the painted, smiling duplicate
successful in its duty:
three already shot today,
bagged and ready to carve.
If objects
had living souls,
I wonder how it would feel:
a traitor,
causing the death
of what it mimics,
floating on water
like a wannabe bird,
even feign it could fly
if it wanted to,
have its pick
of choicest mates;
like Pinocchio,
eager to be turned into the real thing,
hoping its
rifle-bearing Gepetto
will make it flesh and bone,
allow a brook of blood to pump
throughout its winding veins,
pray it might even bring salvation
to this hunter’s calloused heart,
spot a chance
at its own redemption,
have its maker
see its feathered shape
as something
more than food.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in Angel Clare)
On Solving the New York Times
The broken bits of pencil
only spoke of your frustration,
and it wasn’t from the headlines,
the Pax Americana and things
pertaining to Bush.
Your seething led you stomping
to my door,
to the greying goatee clippings
left unswept. To the empty bottle of rye
I’d purposely hid, miserably.
To every quip and inane joke
expressed at breakfast.
The Cream of Wheat is burnt
and I should have made it myself.
You play it taciturn,
and I go out for a timely jog,
feigning smiles to the neighbours
in case they heard us fight.
Darling, do a complex
crossword,
just for me. Squeeze in words
not yet invented.
Damn the dictionaries
to a mangled heap.
Scribble
“I never loved you anyway”
and find a synonym for lies,
in your thesaurus,
before that too is discarded
as my heart
in seven down,
twelve across.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in Like Darwin Among the
Gods)
The broken bits of pencil
only spoke of your frustration,
and it wasn’t from the headlines,
the Pax Americana and things
pertaining to Bush.
Your seething led you stomping
to my door,
to the greying goatee clippings
left unswept. To the empty bottle of rye
I’d purposely hid, miserably.
To every quip and inane joke
expressed at breakfast.
The Cream of Wheat is burnt
and I should have made it myself.
You play it taciturn,
and I go out for a timely jog,
feigning smiles to the neighbours
in case they heard us fight.
Darling, do a complex
crossword,
just for me. Squeeze in words
not yet invented.
Damn the dictionaries
to a mangled heap.
Scribble
“I never loved you anyway”
and find a synonym for lies,
in your thesaurus,
before that too is discarded
as my heart
in seven down,
twelve across.
taken from Anathema: Poems Selected & New
(original version found in Like Darwin Among the
Gods)
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |