Deeper Into Infinite Love April Bang Deeper Into Infinite Love, Detail 1 Deeper Into Infinite Love, Detail 2 Loading Video . . . The incredible amount of detail in this stunning piece by artist April Bang flows from her meditation on the infinite love spoken of in Ephesians 3:14-21. Ephesians 3:14-21 Deeper into Infinite Love By April Bang Credits: Work Documented by Michael Markham Curated by: Michael Markham 2018 36 x 42 inches Acrylic on Canvas Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Ephesians 3:14-21 is a passage of scripture that is close to my heart and one that I frequently go to and meditate on. As I painted this piece, I was drawn to read and reflect on the passage with various English translations of the Bible to gain a deeper understanding of its meaning and see what new insights would emerge with the same verses expressed in different ways. As I explored the passage in this way, I realized that it is a prayer as well as an encounter with mystery. According to the different translations of the Bible, Ephesians 3:14-21 is: “A prayer for the Ephesians” (NIV); “Prayer for the Readers” (NRSV); “Prayer for Spiritual Strength” (ESV); “Paul’s Prayer for Spiritual Growth” (NLT); and “Appreciation of the Mystery” (NKJV). This prayer expressed in The Message exhorts us to the glorious inner strength of having Christ in our hearts and experiencing the extravagant dimensions of Christ’s love, of God who can do far more than what we could expect, imagine, or ask by His power at work within us, His spirit working within deeply and gently. Here in these verses, as expressed in different ways, a particular kind of love—a love that extends beyond knowledge, a love that exceeds our expectations and even imagination, a love that regenerates and transforms—seems to be the focus. And as we kneel down to pray, perhaps it is this kind of love that remains the mystery for us to appreciate as well as come to know, in ever-increasing breadth and length and height and depth. Though we may never come to understand it completely, we will nevertheless be able to “know” this love that surpasses the limits of our knowledge and cognition and takes us into the depths of an experiential and relational reality that allows us to be rooted and grounded in love and filled with all the fullness of God, not just alone in intimate, personal devotion and contemplation, but in community with “all the saints” that transcends the walls of our own church and extends across geography, culture, sociodemographic affiliation, doctrine, denomination, and any other factor that may differentiate us from others. I listened to the song “On and On” by Housefires on repeat as I painted and meditated on the passage. This song seems to express the prayer and mystery conveyed in the verses so beautifully: “Deeper than any ocean… Higher than any mountain / Your love goes on / And on and on and on.” The music and lyrics guided my colors and brush strokes, layer by layer, day by day, while I reflected on love that goes on and on… love that is infinite… love that draws us to God’s presence and keeps us there. How wide, how long, how high, how deep is this love that surpasses knowledge, fills with fullness, and strengthens with power? What does it mean to have such a love abiding and working in our hearts? I am starting to think more deeply about love, faith, and fullness these days. The passage states that Christ may dwell in our hearts through faith and immediately talks about love that surpasses knowledge and fills us with the fullness of God. As I have been reflecting on this passage, I am learning and discovering that this love, however close to us, comes, not of ourselves, but of God; of the Spirit of God “entering into our soul” with love as Jonathan Edwards says in his sermon entitled “ Love, the Sum of all Virtue ”. And it is the Spirit of God that strengthens our inner being, transforms our hearts, and gives power to love with the love of Christ; a love that has no limits; a love where there is fullness of joy and freedom; a love that we can know even as it is infinite! My life and professional experiences to date have primarily centered on the theme of personal transformation and systemic change. I paint, draw, write, and create from a place of spiritual contemplation, exploration, and experiential discovery in pursuit of growth, wholeness, restoration, and transformation, which seems to never end. Transformation within us can foster transformation around us in our relationships, our communities, and our societies, which in turn, transform us again. The cycle seems to be continuous. The words of Ephesians 3:14-21 have been, and continue to be, transformative for me. God’s power is at work within us. God’s love is infinite as it is also accessible to us. And God can do abundantly more than what we ask or think. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection April H. Bang is an artist, leadership educator, researcher, and practitioner specializing in adaptive leadership, transformative learning and adult development, systemic change, and collaborative capacity building. She is an advanced doctoral student in the Adult Learning and Leadership program of the Organization and Leadership Department at Teachers College, Columbia University. Prior to her doctoral studies, she taught leadership to undergraduate students at Yonsei University in Seoul, Korea and conducted workshops for students and professionals in Asia. In addition, she has diverse and extensive experience as a practitioner working across the fields of human rights, criminal justice reform, international rule of law development, and economic policy, including work at the Vera Institute of Justice, International Justice Mission, Harvard Kennedy School’s Executive Session on Human Rights Commissions and Criminal Justice, and the Federal Reserve Bank of New York. As a developing artist, April has an on-going curiosity to examine and demonstrate how art could foster individual and collective transformation. She has started to exhibit her visual artwork in galleries and has co-curated a community art installation in Harlem. She is passionate about art, leadership education, community growth and social impact, and her experiential and scholarly research on the restorative and transformative power of the arts in conflict resolution led to an article in the Journal of Transformative Education. Most recently, she completed the Gotham Fellowship, a leadership development program of Redeemer's Center for Faith and Work (CFW), which has inspired her to explore the integration of art, leadership, and theology. She holds an MPP from Harvard Kennedy School, an Ed.M. in Adult Learning and Leadership from Columbia University, and a BA in economics from Smith College. Website April Bang About the Artist April Bang Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Vandermause Infancy Full Loading Video . . . We are happy to premiere a new photo collage created by photographer Melissa Vandermause in response to 2 Timothy 3:15 and theme of "beginning". 2 Timothy 3:15 "From Infancy..." By Melissa Vandermause Credits: Artist Location: Connecticut Curated by: Charis J. Carmichael Braun 2012 Photography Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I created this image of my 8 month old daughter Vera and her father, who is raising her up in his arms. It was crafted by using a lensbaby, a lens that I use which works with a very small focal plane and blurs out the rest of the image. I wanted to capture my daughter's expression of childlike confidence in her father. It was challenging to take a photograph of a moving baby, but I finally captured one that gave the effect of a surreal world while still seeing an expressive child. Once the image was in Photoshop, I copied and pasted the flowers from the lamp behind her to give the image even more of a "virtual reality" feeling. By just playing with the levels and adding some old photo effects I was very pleased with the final results and I imagine this is how God sees us as we were brought into light through baptism. I want this image to evoke the significance that the Holy Scriptures has on children, and that from infancy you can be communicating to them God's love and raise them to know God's saving work. As a parent, I feel my most important job is to implant in the minds of our children the knowledge of Jesus as our Savior. It can be a scary, unforgiving world and that is shown by the darkness surrounding Vera in this image. But with God's light of salvation, our children can be raised to the light of Jesus, and as parents we can know that with his word at baptism they are saved. We are free and his light shines on us so we may be truly happy and our childlike faith is visible to the world. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Melissa Vandermause has a B. A. in Fine Art from Bethany Lutheran College in Mankato, MN, where she studied studio art and concentrated in photography and graphic design. After she graduated, she worked with New Generation Studio (now Lime Rock Photography) in Mankato, and was the recipient of the Wedding Album of the Year (2006 MPPA) award. Melissa, her husband Greg and two children live and work near Hartford, Connecticut where Melissa documents, creates and “captures life as intended” with her own professional photography studio, Galleria Vivid. Website Melissa Vandermause About the Artist I once was blind but now I see Melissa Vandermause Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

! Loading Video . . . Taking the voice of an outsider looking in, and with a sound reminiscent of Patsy Cline, Taryn Randall's song of longing and mystery explores the community and supernatural events found in Acts 4:31-37. Acts 4:31-37 House Shudder By Taryn Randall Credits: Composed and Performed by Taryn Randall Curated by: Sarah Gregory 2016 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link When I first read this verse, I had a really difficult time relating to it. Giving up everything you own for the good of those around you is very counter-cultural, especially when living in a city like NYC, where so much meaning is placed in your career and possessions. Writing from the perspective of someone inside of this lifestyle didn't sit right with me, so I decided to turn it around and write from the view of a person looking in. As an outsider, the two things that stood out to me the most in this passage were the supernatural event of the meeting place shaking and the deep sense of community. The house shuddering is a physical event, something tangible that can be seen and felt. The community speaks to all of our need for love and companionship; it's a gateway to the greater story of God's ultimate redemption of the world. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Taryn Randall is a native Californian who has lived in Brooklyn, NY the last 4 years. She recently finished recording her first full length album under the name COTE and is releasing the first single at the end of July. When she’s not working on music, Taryn is a jewelry designer for a number of companies, including her own, Jefferson NYC. www.jefferson-nyc.com Website Taryn Randall About the Artist Taryn Randall Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Playwright Nick Stokes has written a short play in response to the Book of Nehemiah wherein the prophet leads the people of Israel to rebuild Jerusalem after returning from a long exile in Egypt. Nehemiah 1:1-13:31 Rebuild By Nick Stokes Credits: Curated by: Emily Clare Zempel 2012 One Act Play Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Community can be understood as a political concept. The book of Nehemiah struck me immediately as political, at a political time of the year (2012 elections), when politics dominated our public discourse. A community comes together to build a wall. In the midst of the communal building, usury and capitalizing on one’s brothers is thrown out of town. The wall is built: triumph, celebration, community. But the seed of the wall’s downfall is laid in its very nature of exclusion and fear. The wall excludes the audience. No foreigners are allowed to corrupt the segregated “utopia”. In completing the wall, the community reaches its ascendancy, and then begins to stagnate in corruption, a perception of lack, self-serving greed, apathy, and paranoia. Without the unifying purpose of building the wall to unite the people, the community disintegrates and the cycle of the rise and fall of civilization continues. REBUILD is an energetic ensemble performance piece based in movement and rhythm. It places the audience in an adversarial, outsider, and at times deific relationship with the ensemble. It overlays ancient Judah with contemporary society. It builds walls and tears them down. Or perhaps the opposite. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Nick Stokes is a playwright and author living outside Seattle who sometimes packs mules in the wilderness of Montana. Website Nick Stokes About the Artist Sing Nick Stokes Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ENSEMBLE: 1-8. Eight men and women. A mixture of ethnicities preferred. PLACE AND TIME: A city, a country, a community. Here and Now. View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ENSEMBLE: 1-8. Eight men and women. A mixture of ethnicities preferred. PLACE AND TIME: A city, a country, a community. Here and Now. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . UK musician and composer Daniel Brew explores the theme of healing and Mark 5:1-20 in his hypnotic new piece, Away and Began. Mark 5:1-20 Away and Began By Daniel Brew Credits: Curated by: Spark+Echo Arts 2014 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I chose these words from the passage as the title for the piece because I think it captures something incredibly powerful about the healing of Legion. We meet someone here who is an absolute outcast from society. However, it’s actually much worse than this. Delving deeper into the narrative and the language used we see that actually we meet someone who personifies death itself. He is as good as dead. “This man lived in the tombs, and no one could bind him anymore, not even with a chain. For he had often been chained hand and foot, but he tore the chains apart and broke the irons on his feet. No one was strong enough to subdue him. Night and day among the tombs and in the hills he would cry out and cut himself with stones.” Mark 5:3-5 This man is away from the town and other people, living in self destructive solitude among the tombs. The image of God in which he was created (Genesis 1:26-27) is clearly warped and distorted. But after he has been healed, what we see is that immediately, by the astonishing authority of Jesus and his word, he is “sitting there, dressed and in his right mind”. It is here we see a theme that is repeated throughout the Gospel of Mark right up to the cross. We see surprising reversals. “Then the people began to plead with Jesus to leave their region.” Mark 5:17 Upon hearing of this the people were afraid of what they had seen Jesus do and they began to plead with him to leave. The demon possessed man now goes away and begins to tell of what Jesus has done for him, but consequently in healing the man Jesus himself becomes an outcast being told to leave the region. The piece was written from the start with this theme in mind. I tried to portray this and many other details from the narrative through every aspect of both the compositional and audio production side of the piece. It is written for the following instruments: Canvas + Electronics Electric Guitar Drum Kit and Percussion Prepared Electric Guitar + Electronics Bass Guiar Voice Although I am a guitar player I was keen, first of all, to simply experiment with sounds away from my instrument to try and provoke a creativeness that was not restricted by the habits and technique of my guitar playing. Therefore, I quite literally started with a blank canvas, which I amplified. I attached two contact mics to it, one on the left and one on the right, making it stereo. I then ran each mic through various different guitar pedals and experimented with the sounds it created. I began just by recording the canvas, played with a variety of implements to create a wide range of sounds. I also experimented with prepared guitar wanting to capture something of Legions destructiveness through unconventional ways of playing and using the instrument. Some of the set ups involved were playing the guitar with a violin bow, a washing up sponge and weaving paperclips between the strings, whilst further manipulating the sound using electronics. An overwhelmingly number of ideas came from these initial experimentations and a small handful of these then went on to form a sort of scaffolding behind the main landscape of the whole piece on top of which I was then able to further compose. I added more colour and texture to this landscape through harmony and melody, exploring the altered scale and playing around with the dissonance and consonance from within that to try and reflect the theme of healing through the gradual movement form dissonance to consonance. Also, other instruments were added to help create a wider sound spectrum providing more depth or brightness when I felt it was needed both as the piece developed in its own right and how the narrative of Mark 5 was being outlined in the piece. I was concerned about setting the scene. I want to take the listener on a journey and help them feel, be it only a reflection, something of the transformation that we see in Mark 5. I also want the listener to enjoy sound. Not just relationships between sounds, such as harmony and rhythm, but simply the sounds themselves and how they are all beautifully and complexly detailed in themselves, but then come together to paint a picture which I have tried my best to reflect the narrative we read in the Gospel of Mark. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Daniel Brew : At the age of 17 I moved to Manchester from my hometown of Cleethorpes to study music. I have just recently finished those studies and graduated from the Royal Northern College of Music with a 1st class degree in Music. My principal study was guitar and I feel was very fortunate to be able to study with some great world renowned musicians both from the jazz world and the classical. Having the opportunity learn form such excellent and inspirational teachers has helped me to excel greatly in many areas of my playing and overall musicianship. During my final year studying at the RNCM I began working closely with a composer and teacher of mine called Mauricio Pauly for whom I recorded one of his most recent compositions written for solo electric guitar. This was a huge learning curve for me and provided the main platform for me becoming involved in contemporary music. I am currently preparing some more pieces in preparation for a concert with his ensemble, Distractfold. I have also recently been offered a place to study at Impuls 2015 Academy for Contemporary Music in Graz (Austria) that will be taking place in February for 13 days. I now work as a self-employed musician in and around the north west of England and I am always involved in many different projects covering a wide range of musical styles. I have my own contemporary jazz trio (Apes Grapes) in which I do the majority of my composing and we are all very influenced not only by jazz but a wide range of contemporary music which no doubt leaks into our compositions. I have also recently started working with the Architectural Association Interprofessional Studio in London exploring ways of translating structure and spatial design into/through music, challenging the frontiers of working in between art, architecture and performance. Website Daniel Brew About the Artist Daniel Brew Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Singer-songwriter Anthony LaMarca worked with his brother to bring us a beautifully thoughtful song in response to suffering and Revelation 21:5. Revelation 21:5 All Things New By Anthony LaMarca Credits: Written by Anthony & Angelo LaMarca. 2016 Performed, and recorded by Anthony LaMarca at home Curated by: Sarah Gregory 2016 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link This song is based on Revelation 21:5. This past August I found out I had multiple myeloma. It was a big shock and ultimately resulted in my having to have a bone marrow transplant in January. Before I went into the hospital my sister-in-law and her kids made me this painting that had that verse written on it. For the two weeks I was in the hospital that painting was something I could return to and find peace and reassurance. I was scared and uncomfortable. I missed being home. I missed cooking. But I knew that that verse was true. My body was being renewed. Learning to trust and face fear head-on is not easy. It's hard to give up control, but it is also freeing to realize when you are in a situation that is out of your control. So, this song aims to illustrate a change from fear to reassurance and peace. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Anthony LaMarca is a musician from Youngstown, Ohio. He currently plays in The War On Drugs, sometimes with Dean & Britta, and previously with St. Vincent. He and his brother, Angelo, make records as The Building. He also has a wonderful German Shepherd named Petra. Website Anthony LaMarca About the Artist Anthony LaMarca Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Spark+Echo Arts Artistic Advisor Emily SoRelle Adams explored scripture through dance at our recent event, Reflections on Water: New Works of Music, Dance, and Spoken Word Poetry. Curated by Emily Adams and Emily Ruth Hazel, the event was held on Governors Island, the perfect place to explore the theme of "Water" as part of Metropolitan Water Alliance's City of Water Day. This work was a collaborative piece choreographed to the poem “Cycles” written and spoken by Emily Ruth Hazel. It was based on the verses of the Lord’s Prayer, specifically Matthew 6:10 (in italics): “Our Father in heaven, hallowed be your name. Your kingdom come, your will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us today our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we also have forgiven our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from the evil one.” The piece also responds to Emily Ruth Hazel’s poem of the same name, which explores how the nature of water mirrors the natures of God as God is described in the above passage. Matthew 6:10 Cycles: A Collaboration of Dance and Spoken Word Poetry By Emily Adams Credits: Choreographed and Danced by Emily SoRelle Adams Poetry by Emily Ruth Hazel Sound Scape by Skip SoRelle Filmed by Michael Markham Curated by: Jonathon + Emily 2012 Collaborative Live Performance, Dance and Spoken Word Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Inspired by Emily Hazel's thoughtful poetry, I decided to step out of my comfort zone and take on the challenge of choreographing to the spoken word for the first time in my professional dance career. I ended up using the rhythm of Emily's words as my music and used the rich imagery in the poem inspired by scripture to create movement that has hopefully added another layer of insight to her work and to the scripture it's based on. As a final element I asked sound designer, Skip SoRelle, to create a simple sound backdrop of rain falling on a lake to be played during the dance. It was the cohesive last piece that helped bring it all together. I am very thankful for the artistic growth I experienced through working on this project, and for the opportunity to have been able to engage with scripture in such a tangible way. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Emily SoRelle Adams is a freelance dancer and teacher based in NYC. She studied dance at S.M.U.- Meadows School of the Arts in Dallas, TX before dancing professionally with Ballet Austin and the Washington Ballet. Since moving to the city Emily has had the opportunity to perform with companies including the Metropolitan Opera, New Chamber Ballet, Connecticut Ballet and Rebecca Kelly Ballet. She has also had the chance to share her love of dance to students of all ages and levels. Emily currently lives in Brooklyn with her husband Kenyon and continues to seek out new artistic endeavors here in the city and beyond. emilysorelleadams.tumblr.com Website Emily Adams About the Artist Emily Adams Other Works By Reflections on Water: New Works of Music, Dance, and Spoken Word Poetry Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . In this collaborative project, visual artist Nicora Gangi, composer Jonathon Roberts, and vocalist Emily Clare Zempel teamed up to produce a multi-sensory response to Psalm 13. Psalms 13 Pain Pathway By Nicora Gangi + Jonathon Roberts Credits: Collage by Nicora Gangi Composed by Jonathon Roberts Vox by Emily Clare Zempel Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2016 Collaborative Project Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Nicora Gangi Meditations on Psalm 13- Pain – The Pathway to God’s Glory When I suffered with intense loneliness, my former pastor encouraged me to use my artistic gifts to visually express my feelings of rejection, anger, sorrow, regret, unattractiveness, physical needs, isolation, grief, and fear of what may be ahead. These feelings are most of the ingredients that I recognize as part of loneliness’ assault against the soul. Throughout the creation of these collages I called on the Lord to restore my soul. With groanings that I could not articulate, I appealed to the Holy Spirit to intercede for me before the Throne of Grace. I found that these artistic meditations helped me in the midst of my struggles. The collages in this series were all created from paper magazine images. Some were scratched into and some drawn upon. The main objective of these collages was to see God as He was actually revealing Himself to me: through this psalm. Timothy Keller has stated that the Book of Psalms is one of the books that Jesus quotes more than any other in the Bible. “The psalms were not simply sung by Jesus, they are also about Jesus.” This is a truth that has continued to keep me in the rich study of His WORD. Timothy Keller, Songs of Jesus (New York: Viking Press, 2015) 42. Jonathon Roberts Ever since Nicora Gangi told me about me her process of actively meditating on the Psalms through collages and color, it has lingered as an ideal and natural way grow in one’s faith and creative life. I’ve always longed for simple ways to infuse the Bible and creative activities into daily life, and I can’t think of a better example than Nicora’s. Creating a musical response to her series of meditations on Psalm 13 gave me an opportunity to “sit” in Psalm 13 and contemplate the psalmist’s words and Nicora’s response. At the same time, perhaps not coincidentally, I was playing music with my toddler Walter and started to sing “Just Am I”, open on the hymnal on our piano, playing around with a more introspective style. Next to the hymnal on the stand were Nicora’s images. Over the next few week, the stories of Psalm 13, Nicora’s meditation, and “Just as I Am” wove together and felt like a natural extension of one another. I imagine the singer working through all of this at once, singing, speaking, meditating, and listening through the span of this song. This beautiful performance by Emily Clare Zempel captures the emotion of Psalm 13. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Nicora Gangi was educated at Syracuse University, Syracuse, New York, USA (BFA 1974 and MFA 1976). She was a Professor of Art at Syracuse University for 29 years. Gangi has been awarded many Grand Prize and First Place awards and grants including the Pollock-Krasner Foundation Award. She has been and continues to be published in numerous artist books on pastel paintings. She has lectured regionally and nationally as a visiting artist at universities and artist’s guilds. She is represented by: MME Fine Art, New York,NY, Bender Gallery, Asheville, NC, LM Gallery, Saratoga, WY. Jonathon Roberts is a composer and performer from Wisconsin living in Beacon, NY. By day he writes music for slot machines, by night, the Bible. With his wife, Emily Clare Zempel, he collaborates on music and theatre projects, and founded the arts non-profit Spark and Echo Arts. His style was shaped by studying at Lawrence University, touring the country in an RV as the Apostle Paul, performing in an absurdist downtown NYC music/theatre ensemble, and being father to Walter and Alvin. Website Nicora Gangi + Jonathon Roberts About the Artist Nicora Gangi + Jonathon Roberts Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Christina Hanson's dramatic compositional piece uses a woodwind quintet to explore the story of Paul's conversion found in Acts 9:1-9,17-22. Acts 9:1-9 Acts 17-22 Damascus Catalyst By Christina Hanson Credits: Composed by Christina Hanson. 2016 Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2016 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link The story of Saul’s conversion in Acts 9 is a staple in most Christian households. Oftentimes believers miss the truly dramatic nature of the story. Saul “breathes murderous threats” to the believers, sees a vision only he can see that tells him to change the trajectory of his entire life, and ends up preaching to the world the very thing he persecuted so fiercely. In “Damascus Catalyst,” I let the text inspire the musical shape of the piece, beginning with the formation of Saul’s “murderous threats”, following his transformative journey on the road to Damascus, and ending with his proclamation of the Gospel. This piece uses some contemporary compositional idioms but injects them into styles that are familiar to many, especially the style of hymns. I was inspired in part by two hymns, which can be heard fragmented throughout this piece: “Jesus Christ is Lord Today” (an obscure hymn tune I have only found in one hymnal but evertheless fell in love with) and “Christ be our Light” (a more modern Catholic hymn tune). By using these fragments as a backbone for the whole piece, Saul clearly appears as a character that transforms as the thematic material transforms. The style of the piece is somewhat derived from musical theatre, using dramatic tension to tell a story. To this end, I was inspired by the versatility of the woodwind quintet—its ability to be as quiet as a small wisp of a thought, be as frightening as an unexpected vision, and to capture the jubilant cries of a recent believer as he proclaims his newfound beliefs. Loosely, Saul’s character is “played” by the horn, and you can hear his thought process rattling around in his head throughout the piece. By following the thread of the story from the beginning of Damascus Catalyst to the end, the listener can experience this vignette of Saul’s life—God’s presence, as a catalyst on the road to Damascus, transforming Saul from ruthless tyrant to relentless advocate of the Gospel. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Christina Lauren Hanson is a composer, music educator, pianist, violinist, student, accompanist, and entrepreneur based in Appleton, Wisconsin. She is currently a candidate for the Bachelor of Music degree in Composition at Lawrence University in Appleton and has studied under Joanne Metcalf, Asha Srinivasan, and Lawton Hall. Her compositional career began in at a very young age, and since then she has written pieces for a wide variety of instruments including piano, strings, and woodwinds. As she studies composition, she finds myriads of ways to showcase God’s beauty through the medium of music—a medium that has been used to worship God since the beginning of time! Christina frequently performs with her string trio, The III of Us, and lends her talents as an accompanist, pianist, violinist, and leader for choirs and worship teams in the Fox Valley (including for Bended Knee Ministries and Lawrence Christian Fellowship). Currently, by teaching piano, violin, and music theory, writing music for commissions, using her entrepreneurial skills, and trusting God’s guidance, she is putting herself through college so she can further hone her compositional craft to glorify the Creator. In the future, she plans to keep exploring music as a channel to reach others for Christ not just through composition but also through teaching and performing. When Christina is not doing any of the above, she enjoys the company of her many friends and comrades, taking care of plants on her family’s apple orchard (she has thriving succulent and vegetable gardens), drinking coffee and tea, reading, improvising on her grand piano, listening to Christian radio drama, swing dancing, and volunteering in the children’s ministry at her church. Website Christina Hanson About the Artist Christina Hanson Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Emily Ruth Hazel explores the human experience, beyond the labels, of an unnamed man in this beautiful, thoughtful poem responding to Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 56:3-5. Isaiah 56:3-5 Acts 8:26-40 Give Me a Name By Emily Ruth Hazel Credits: Curated by: Spark+Echo Arts 2020 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Curious to explore a Black perspective within the Middle Eastern context of the Bible, I tagged along on the spiritual journey of an Ethiopian eunuch who has an unexpected encounter returning from a pilgrimage to the Jewish Temple in Jerusalem. When I chose to join the conversation between Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 56:3-5, I had to befriend my discomfort. In the past, I’d heard the story in Acts 8 held up as a model of how to encourage religious conversion, or else framed as an example of acting in faith by taking a God-directed detour that may not make sense at first. While stories can be used to underscore a point, I’ve become more interested in engaging with stories as windows into the complex, nuanced lives of fellow humans—as invitations that allow us to connect more deeply with our shared humanity. I’m fascinated by how storytelling can powerfully shift the way we see God in ourselves and in each other. As I had yet to hear the story of the eunuch’s spiritual transformation discussed with the eunuch’s point of view in mind, I decided to start there. Noticing that this character was presented as being unusual in multiple ways, I was moved to reimagine the backstory (as best I could, with all my limitations as someone living in another body, place, and time). I wanted to put words to what it might have felt like to walk in this person’s sandals. By giving this character attention, voice, and agency, I discovered another side of the truth emerging from the margins. Steeping myself in the story, I first studied several English translations of both passages. Then, to support my reading of the biblical text, I searched for information on the implications of being a eunuch. What I found reminded me that the control of people’s reproductive rights by those in positions of power has taken many forms throughout history. My research also led me to reflect on the reality that government-sanctioned violence against people’s bodies in the name of service or protection is not merely a contemporary issue. While I was aware that forced sterilization is an ancient practice accepted in a number of cultures—one that continues today—I was newly disturbed by what I read about genital mutilation in biblical times. I learned that young men who were selected to become court officials were often castrated. Supposedly, this was to keep them focused on their duties as civil servants and to make them more trustworthy in the presence of a queen or around a king’s harem. Because this surgery was performed before puberty, eunuchs’ physical development was stunted and their hormones and health were permanently affected. I’m grateful I came across Peterson Toscano’s illuminating article “The Mystery of the Ethiopian Eunuch,”* which helped me to understand the cultural context better and to identify with the eunuch myself. Aside from being Black, single, and childless, I could relate to the theme of socialized “otherness” based on my countless experiences with living between worlds culturally and with people calling attention to the ways I don’t fit societal “norms.” Another layer of the story that began to resonate with me was the way traumas fracture one’s relationship with one’s body and create disconnection from one’s feelings, diminishing a person’s sense of humanity. Because I see the eunuch’s journey as ultimately being one of healing and restoration, I felt that it was vital to infuse the story with physicality and emotional awareness. I was also intrigued by how the social construct of gender factors into this story about a person whose identity could be perceived as ambiguous. This sparked me to shake up some stereotypes as far as how traits such as courage, strength, leadership, and vulnerability are often conveyed in our idioms and cultural imagination as being strictly “masculine” or “feminine” rather than simply “human” qualities. (Thank you, Glennon Doyle, author of Untamed .) In The Message paraphrase of the Bible, I was struck by how Isaiah 56:3 is interpreted: “Make sure no outsider who now follows God ever has occasion to say, ‘God put me in second-class. I don’t really belong.’ And make sure no physically mutilated person is ever made to think, ‘I’m damaged goods. I don’t really belong.’” As I pondered the account in Acts 8, I noted that the eunuch isn’t named but is instead referred to categorically by nationality, physical/ability difference, class, and occupation. I realized it was common for the writers of biblical texts to use such demographics (in lieu of names) to describe characters who appeared only once. Still, it spurred me to consider how the decision of whether or not to include a person’s name can shape our perception of who is central to the story and who is a minor character. I saw ties between history and current events. Who is important enough to be mentioned as a unique individual? When some people are left anonymous, who does this protect, champion, or foreground? In my version of the story in Acts 8, even though some names were stated in the biblical text or could be inferred, I chose not to reference any of the characters or writers by name as a subversive way of treating everyone with the same degree of respect. * Grateful acknowledgment to Peterson Toscano for background and inspiration: http://www.meetinghouse.xyz/everything/2017/3/23/the-mystery-of-the-ethiopian-eunuch Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Emily Ruth Hazel is a poet, writer, and cross-pollinator who is passionate about diversifying the audience for poetry and giving voice to people who have been marginalized. Selected as the Honorary Poet for the 25th Annual Langston Hughes Community Poetry Reading in Providence, Rhode Island, she presented a commissioned tribute to the Poet Laureate of Harlem in February of 2020. She is a two-time recipient of national Dorothy Sargent Rosenberg Poetry Prizes and was awarded a National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship for a residency at The Hambidge Center in 2014. Her chapbook, Body & Soul (Finishing Line Press, 2005) , was a New Women’s Voices finalist. Emily’s work has appeared in numerous anthologies, magazines, literary journals, and digital projects, including Kinfolks: A Journal of Black Expression and Magnolia: A Journal of Women’s Socially Engaged Literature. Her poetry has also been featured on music albums, in a hair salon art installation, and in a science museum exhibition. Emily has written more than twenty commissioned works for organizations, arts productions, social justice projects, and private clients. Currently, she is developing several poetry book manuscripts and writing lyrics for an original musical inspired by the life of the extraordinary singer and Civil Rights icon Marian Anderson. A graduate of Oberlin College’s Creative Writing Program and a former New Yorker, she is now based in the Los Angeles area. EmilyRuthHazel.com Instagram: @EmilyRuthHazel Facebook.com/EmilyRuthHazel Website Emily Ruth Hazel About the Artist Artist in Residence 2013, Emily Ruth Hazel Word of Mouth In the Wake of the Storm Circling the Waist of Wisdom Homecoming Runaway Give Us This Day Undressing Prayer Emily Ruth Hazel Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art The way home is a desolate road through the desert. Only my driver and I roll through the noonday heat. Ahead of us, the air shimmers. View Full Written Work Give Me a Name The way home is a desolate road through the desert. Only my driver and I roll through the noonday heat. Ahead of us, the air shimmers. Then out of a cloud of dust, a man runs up behind us. He calls out, Who are you reading? A poet’s vision unfurls in my lap. I’m thirsty for company, someone to walk between these lines with me, clear a path through my own wilderness. The stranger says he’s well acquainted with this writer. If he knows who I am, he doesn’t let on. He climbs in and we plunge beneath the words. Whose story is this, anyway? The one who takes a vow of silence, an outcast whose most loyal friend is heartache—is this a portrait of the poet or of another? I hold the words like water in my palms, my face reflected in them. Back in Jerusalem, I was an unexpected guest in God’s house. There I was dark enough that I’d never pass as a native. In a land of divided rooms, neither side claims me. Smooth chinned, voice unchanged, even among my own, I am always other. My educated tongue surprises. I read the way my people envy and despise me in the same blink. The jewel of Ethiopia, our warrior queen, trusts me with the nation’s treasure. But power of the purse came with a price. Still a boy when I was taught my body could not be trusted, I was like a lamb that hears the metal scraping hot against the stone. When they came for me, my gut churned. A boulder sealed my throat. Only mangled moans escaped. They carved me into a loyal servant ashamed of my own voice. Deep in my chest liquid rage threatened to erupt. I tried to swallow the unspeakable. Learned to amputate everything I felt. Any part of me that trembled was a danger best denied. All the boys I knew marched into manhood believing courage hung between their legs. But I’m my mother’s child. Long after the men who tore me from my home washed my blood off their blade, I remembered my mother had shown me how to be brave. Wherever I go, I’m described by my difference, defined by what I cannot do or be, haunted by echoes of violence known but unnamed. Never to look into a young face and recognize my likeness, I’m tired of being seen as an absence, a shadow that merely calls attention to what is touched by light. Here in this barren place, riding with a stranger, I feel like I belong. The wheels of my world slow to a stop. I step out of the story I’ve been told must be mine. The man I’ve just met stands beside me as we wade into a river. He holds my shoulders. Dips me into the muddy water. Not as I was held down years ago. This time, I’ve chosen to be held. I feel the muscles in my back relax against his arm. Memory stirs, half-awake: my mother’s gentle hands bathe me as a baby. Raised up again, my body breaks the surface. Bright sky overwhelms. Boulder rolled away, my tongue unguarded now. Laughing and coughing, mouth full of water and silt and suddenly a song in a language I’ve never heard. God of the unsung, God of the present and the missing, God who translates phantom pain, who holds the map of all my scars, may this body be your temple. Some say my branches died before they bloomed, water too precious to be wasted on me. Don’t let me wither under the blistering sun, cursed for bearing no fruit. If I can offer shelter to someone called to walk a lonely road, maybe that’s enough. God of the forgotten, God of the never begotten, will my story, at least, outlive me? Give me a name worth remembering, a name that will never be cut off. Emily Ruth Hazel Acts 8:26-40 and Isaiah 56:3-5 Close Loading Video . . . The way home is a desolate road through the desert. Only my driver and I roll through the noonday heat. Ahead of us, the air shimmers. Download Full Written Work

Drew Dernavich Eccles911 Loading Video . . . Cartoonist Drew Dernavich explores chance, fate, and absurdity in this work that he created in response to Ecclesiastes 9:11. Ecclesiastes 9:11 Ecclesiastes 9:11 By Drew Dernavich Credits: Curated by: Sarah Gregory 2017 Comic Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I have had different perspectives on the apparent fatalism in this verse. The idea that time and chance are stacked against persons of strength and speed and wisdom does not particularly bother me…when it represents other people. I can take a certain delight in the uncertainty of outcomes when I have no stake or interest in someone else’s success (to my shame, I suppose). However, when I’ve fancied myself as being particularly talented or deserving, the fact that my odds are seemingly no better than a roll of the dice has felt like a cosmically offensive and unjust idea. Reading this passage makes me ask, “is it even good to be skilled or intelligent?” The writer of Ecclesiastes makes these gifts seem a lot less appealing. And Paul doubles down on this concept in his first letter to the Corinthians, writing that “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong” (1 Cor 1:27). Seriously? Can we not have wisdom without shame? And yet, I am relieved to think that God takes pleasure in upending the laws of nature, in which the powerful perennially dominate the weak, and the intelligent manipulate society for their own benefit. Trusting the unknowable ways of God instead of our own power is what Henri Nouwen called moving from “false certainties to true uncertainties.” It is what we must do, no doubt. But it is challenging. The phrase “time and chance” reminded me of the so-called butterfly effect, the theory which holds that small changes in one area of a complex system can drastically effect conditions in another: a butterfly flaps its wings in the Philippines, causing a tornado in Arkansas. The idea that one could potentially trace the steps in this chain of events is fascinating, and made me think: when the “race is not to the swift,” is it because of God’s direct intervention, or is it because of a complex chain of material events – or are they the same thing? The poetic and absurd possibilities inherent in this idea sparked my imagination. My response to this verse, then, was to tease those out in the form of a short graphic narrative. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Drew Dernavich is best known for being a cartoonist for The New Yorker magazine. A regular contributor with over 250 cartoons published, his woodcut-style drawings are among the most instantly recognizable in the publication, and he is a winner of the National Cartoonists Society’s “Reuben Award” as the country’s best gag cartoonist. Drew’s first children’s picture book, “It’s Not Easy Being Number Three” (Henry Holt/Christy Ottaviano Books), was published in February 2016. In addition to working on his second kids’ book, tentatively scheduled for September 2018, Drew continues to do graphic visualization work for organizations, writes for the parody project TL;DR Wikipedia , and is a member of the Ink Well Foundation , among other various pursuits. More of his work can be found at drewdernavich.com and the blog wordspictureshumor.com . Website Drew Dernavich About the Artist Drew Dernavich Other Works By View Drew's comic, "Ecclesiastes 9:11," in full. Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Beginning with Joel 1 and then expanding to the entire book, poet GC Waldrep explores the divine act of artistically creating while addressing the book's warnings of destruction in this stunning long poem. Joel 1:1-20 COMMENTARY ON JOEL By GC Waldrep Credits: Curated by: John Estes 2017 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I suspect that for the believing artist the question of where, how, when, and to what extent one engages Scripture is always thorny—especially when the grounds of engagement shift from belief itself (belief qua belief) to art, even when art feels essential to the believing artist’s fundamental sense of vocation. When Spark and Echo contacted me, I had already been thinking about a believing (or belief-driven) art as an exercise in parascription, a writing-around the Word. (I’d lately been co-teaching an interdisciplinary class on art practice, theory, and criticism focused on Dada, Surrealism, and Fluxus; it was Jackson Mac Low that provoked me parascriptively.) In the case of Joel, there’s the added question of how one writes parascriptively around prophecy, around prophetic space. If one approaches prophecy as constantly and simultaneously both fulfilled and yet-to- be-fulfilled, then this space, this prophetic space, is an active, quickening zone. I think think this is especially true for the Hebrew prophets as acknowledged by the Christian perspective, their ministry both fulfilled (in the Person of Christ) and ongoing, as texts that reside and reverberate from and within the Word. It’s easy to imagine Joel, for all his apocalyptic fervency, as a poet’s prophet, not so much for his images (although Joel deploys some fine images) as for his associational panache, which various Biblical commentators assure me has few contemporary parallels. The invasion of locusts is either prefatory to or like an invasion of flame (or drought), which in turn gives way (literally or figuratively) to an invading army. Locusts, flame, and armed invaders flicker, merge, fade back into the tightly-woven fabric of Joel’s verses. Similarly, the three valleys in the latter part of Joel function both literally and metaphorically, their aspects exchanging and imbricating. The structure of the book of Joel is associative, a nuanced equation moving organically into the unknowable. Various terms of that equation would have been very familiar to Jewish readers, but not the motion, the charged manner in which those terms were convoked, written-through. As for my parascription, my writing-around, I worked initially in a constrained, rule-governed compositional space, moving through the text and also through four extensive commentaries (two ancient, two modern). That exercise in constraints gave way to the level of autobiography, the “locust”-ridden summers of my Southern childhood (actually cicadas) as well as my work as a young man in a maximum-security prison in North Carolina. My sense was of a gathering in the margins of the Word, an accretion—and then a paring-away. I kept in mind the ancient and sacramental dictum (found in the Philokalia, among other sites) that God cannot be understood, only participated in. Thus, the poem, the artifact as an act not only of circumference, of writing- (or reading-) around, but also of ecstatic participation. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection G.C. Waldrep ’s most recent books are a long poem, Testament (BOA Editions, 2015), and a chapbook, Susquehanna (Omnidawn, 2013). With Joshua Corey he edited The Arcadia Project: North American Postmodern Pastoral (Ahsahta, 2012). His new collection, feast gently, is due out from Tupelo Press in 2018. Waldrep’s work has appeared in Poetry, Ploughshares, APR, New England Review, New American Writing, Harper’s, Tin House, Verse, and many other journals in the USA and abroad, as well as in Best American Poetry 2010 and the 2nd edition of Norton’s Postmodern American Poetry . He has received prizes from the Poetry Society of America and the Academy of American Poets as well as the Colorado Prize, the Dorset Prize, the Campbell Corner Prize, two Pushcart Prizes, a Gertrude Stein Award for Innovative American Writing, and a 2007 National Endowment for the Arts Fellowship in Literature. Waldrep lives in Lewisburg, Pa., where he teaches at Bucknell University, edits the journal West Branch , and serves as Editor-at-Large for The Kenyon Review . Website GC Waldrep About the Artist GC Waldrep Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art And then their gifts looked up, in the shadow of the stranger. I beggared myself at the treasuries of wind. View Full Written Work COMMENTARY ON JOEL G.C. Waldrep And then their gifts looked up, in the shadow of the stranger. I beggared myself at the treasuries of wind. The figs drew in their faces, they pawed the ground. Pears, plucked, stewed in their stone cells. I gathered them from the asphalt’s heavy apron, first at the edge of the mountain, then deep in a midwestern plain. They wore brutal voices in their thighs. We moved further into the orchard, its radiant sleep upon the tilth’s luminous anvil. Radio waves in the galvanized sheds, arrows stored in some persecuted heat. Summon the oaths from their velvet warrens—friend, you recognize this turbid amplitude, abundance’s nodal chain. It was dark inside the body, and the body’s body. The children bareheaded stumbling in single file towards the gap, their tongues like crowns to which the constellations kneel. I did not call to them, speak to them. The war was almost over—we measured dry proofs against our own organs, laid out for just this purpose on exhaustion’s tepid sheen. Acres and acres of prison lighting absorbing the night, contracting the web of low roads by which the dead are loved. I felt the creek’s clean breath against the comet’s shoulder, yeast in my eyes, yeast in my ears, in the pits of my beard. Speak, father, Master, rhythmic bread all time plows under. In my dream dark swallows with blazing teeth chewed right through the letter I’d received. We buried the church in our sojourn; each sculpted his neighbor from wax, disgust, and tears. I had six brothers or I had none, picking my way carefully through the scarlet ranks. I believed in pollen, bones, the twilight valence of the fugue and its dispossessors. We were far away from any village and thirsty, the kingdom shrunk to a single gate, a half-drunk well, one grain lodged in the heart’s torn cloak. And their gifts looked up, the song went. The fruit close to my mouth, enough darkness to garrison any outside world. Little lame empty creatures, imagine another, bolder Christ: go earthless, let speech lay its ancient edge. 1:1 A hymn veins the forest; the hand wears the body like a living suit. The body’s milk spoke as a single voice, a beautiful moon the blood dreams. To wake (the burning animals of the body, the mercy machines). Mercy’s small blue coal disperses. A shadow-embassy, a sleeping lamp—spoken- to , day’s scab, gently burning. 1:2 Hear this, old men (for I am old now, I have dispersed both my javelin and my crown): The steps of fire, leading to the ring of fire. Mercy’s long, unwritten vowel even the forest stretches its green candle towards. 1:3 My face slept. The path of lust, its lipless dualism. Write in the scar’s clear margin, pariah: probe silence’s feast. 1:4 And thus looked back, the breast neither blame nor garment, a perfect salt. Now in the body-dark winter’s decibel hones its bone-knife.> “If a soul were seen as being subject to fire” was my misreading (of St. Cyril of Alexandria), also “dire and intolerable damage,” “insatiable teeth.” Captivities, antigens. Towards God, a single language breaks (the bleak touch of the dead). —Meanwhile we name the animals. This is what the strangers were singing: Inside its blue house, day came burning. 1:5 Neither history nor memory, our bodies reckon blood’s many soul-names, its tine-debt,its perfect blindness. My heart’s winter-palace, snug brother-skin. Wachet auf , the nation’s touch, its emerald question tumbling in the eddy. 1:6 Day-sickle’s tooth season, a white feast. The key of wine, “strong and beyond counting” (see: Green grow the rushes, O). Something blind beneath music’s porcelain law. Considered saints, the living—like peace, grief’s anthem set among stones. 1:7 Beneath mercy, something small and perfect, a flesh or dust. Speak, moon, my brother-within-faith. Children stroked the night’s last honey, within winter’s sweet glands. And yet within war’s bloody Baedeker, grief is always winter’s glass. Strip the fig tree drawn from the black well of war. Mercy’s mind, cold at the edge of Christ. 1:8 “The vintage songs” (Cyril again). Can you teach them to me, can anyone teach them, sorrow’s flushed regime, its bloody tithe. Bride-eye, bride-caught. Sweet noon, the last wars burr this temple’s silence, the discarded husks of constellations. 1:9 Thus, the abolition of sacrifices. View nothing, and the night, thus worshiped, wakes you like a bell. Bread traces its parallax around the image, its blown altars. Enthrone the stones of mourning, which do not know our names. (Once again, we teach them, or try to. Watch us trying to teach the stones our pretty names.) 1:10 In my dream the ovens for the baking of bread were built as mazes. Inside them, birth after birth.... The eye’s scent, discrete, independent of the body. 1:11 The eyes, steeped in language, asked for a perfect church, were offered the body (again) (of course). The very texture of the skin changes as one approaches (nipples, lips). Meat-house, meat-mansion: a good year among those robust silences. 1:12 It’s midnight: Let’s name again, let’s sing the marking song. All together, now? Don’t mind the translations— The heart’s bathed limb, annealed by the clay gate. The pilot’s breath, taken deep through a clear flame, become its own dark fleece. Speak ash, speak garment, speak pinkening desert. Every word made grain. 1:13 Theodore of Mopsuestia observes “the very beginning of his words is a threat.” And yet: here we may pause and think about what we place upon the body, our bodies, any body. The forest making something slowly deaf. The wind’s great door, even hunger, a vagrant lobe (began first to preach its living word). Or: the body’s broken prayer, prayer’s discarded gate, another flesh strung with sleep—its guest-song. Inside night, day clothes the blue wind, the yellow thorn, all of it. Handsome root of the pomegranate. The eye, dead and cold among those green hungers. 1:14 The unavailable ordinances whisper among themselves. They seem troubled. They keep touching their pale wrists, their heavy jurists’ robes. Everybody’s here, the nurses from their weathered cottage, death’s blue map and sine-garment. Something is shifting slowly yet in the tortured ground. The corn’s beautiful tongue sleeps away the hewn night, its ivory amplitudes. 1:15 Write “temple” (or: the writing temple). Sweet little animals hands beneath the photograph, a scrap of winter grass. Bread-psalms, bread-psalms. Memory asked its sweet gun, What will we place in our wine vats, our granaries, our storehouses now? 1:16 What is authentic the wind breaks, across its broad thigh. People ask: why must the war be beautiful? Father, don this broken church. 1:17 Smallest forest among the animals, friend hunger once again in the goldbitten light. Hunger’s eye, heart-passage. My heart’s breath wandered, lame, in the desert. Seeds shrivel beneath their clods, or else their shovels, every husbandry to its own mute tent, oxen stamp in their enclosures, beasts of burden rot in their own dung. Honey-fruit of the eye, withdrawn. Nothing will bring to blossom the wound’s mute leaven. Salt shimmers like glass in the air, death’s sapling deep in the body. So film the corn as it withers, its bread-shadow, the city’s black pavane or tangent. Little blindbody, set the thorn-water in the smallest field. Alive, alive-O. 1:18 On the perplexity of the animals: Depending on the rescension the cattle weep, or the sheep weep. —Always, either way, weeping beasts. Naked country, word-shadow behind the incision-hut, the broad red seed of village life. Now another chalk town, feast of blue wounds, strung gourds, the desert’s taut and perfect throat. The problem of the desert in winter. The problem of drowning, how it is, how can it be that some drown, in night’s war-glass. Late into the night I studied the grafting of figs, the number of horses and their errands, the distinction between scythe and scroll. —Always, either way, weeping beasts. 1:19 First-flame. A glass expanse, its long turquoise border placed against the prophecy’s bleak day-heart. It’s true, I’ve always lived in the burning orchard. But the dense bone of the heart’s red winter must lily. A lily-dream on the burning sea. The bone of the heart, what we habitually call the heart, knows nothing of the empty hives of love, that God-hum (in winter’s lead machine). The dense bone of day made breath (inside death’s dissuasive limit). A pitted honey— 1:20 Now the animals reparate their Word, no longer final (tempered in its falling-guise). The pastures of the wilderness, the beauties, the charming things, the pastures of the range (as some would have it)—fire is faith’s special friend, its third arm, its crutch. Somewhat later, Jonah will cattle even the cattle to repentance. 2:1 Night’s saline weft. We let the trumpet vine take the stump on which the mailbox was mounted, then the mailbox itself, orange throats studding the clump like snakes on some Medusa’s head around which every insect seemed to buzz, fixed, intoxicated (“intoxicated children,” Cyril of Alexandria suggests). The density of cicadas calling in the darkness enveloped us in a slow wound, as if night’s green skin were some planet sleeping. Cicadas are not locusts, are in fact taxonomically unrelated, but they do look the part. Every winter ghost is blind, yes, but this was summer’s phantom, a ghost’s ghost, something to touch-through, faith’s green throne with its orange heralds, their music sifting towards and into the nerve-church again and again. A little beautiful water (called the tongue), a catchment, a basin: cool little hand, perfect like the blond vestment Christ bears His feast inside. I pulled it tighter around my shoulders, thighs. Music offered love’s almost-grammar, a pleasant bread we carried in the mouth. Its cache of honey handed wine another death. Eventually the postal service refused to deliver our mail. Music’s ancient visage, the beautiful surface of the soul (another wound, yes) in the baptismal acre. We chorused: Build a little garment-shadow / from the marriage song, wake its water. Because even the unseen grain almost has a title now, a church, a debt, a prayer. In June, the storm’s heavy touch, a bit of night waiting just inside the glass. Oxygen’s spastic ash, its pilgrim-mouth. Speak body, pale wine-forest of the hidden bride. 2:2 Thus begins the catalogue of resemblances. (Everything now is winter amid my song, even love’s humid dreamway across which my people row at night.) What destroys: the honey-factions, each borne on its creche of rust. Say, like dawn spread out against green hills; a living debt endowed in faith fumbles the Christ-latch (my fingers, soiled with breath and rest). Say: light’s passage, almost a new tongue. Speak the feast, o beautiful bone machine spread against the hills like dawn. Like dawn, return unto me, famished, crusting reef of your long step at dusk, or any darker tune. I will release you into the wound the forest made, its fleshy gate. 2:3 Neither fire nor body, touch’s savant jab, the surface of the soul waiting, a censure in the twilight. Smell the animals sleeping (when faced with war). Like every partisan, man knows fire’s mineral heart. What I’m talking about is something else,the darkness behind fire, its fragrant blood-vault. Eden’s warm forest recumbent and lithe within every schism, every palace. A day-tongue cast towards level ground, every pilgrim within the self names what is beautiful, verb or church. Neither night nor sky, like all bodies so beautiful when the war touches them. 2:4 What destroys us: is like horses, bears the heads of horses, is like horsemen, no, resembles horses fitted for war. What destroys us: moves swiftly, sharpened like an ark. Go, photograph the soul’s empty Christ. 2:5a Not like chariots but like the sound of chariots, at the summits of the mountains, music’s terraced debt and archived brow. Let’s say even a nest among the snow’s indrawn breath. Listen for its blood-tide, its milk-tide. I climbed to where you showed me lilies rustling, in the shadow of old snow. Gently, the bone-machines ruck the blood. (God knows every sky.) 2:5b Not like the sound of chariots but like the hiss of fire, faith’s eye-stub, the eyes caught burning in prayer’s lavish net. The field-smell comes at night, as memory. Take the honey-rind of war, everything dusk smears. A wedding-whisper, debt’s burning mote. Little eye, close to the burning hum or living feast, the feast made passage (anent my sleeping thought). What’s more, the heart’s clean lambs worship ash. Salt-kirk or day-bone, listen: even a blue mercy knows this castaway world. 2:5c Winter-elm, winter-breath, winter’s water: pale soul-beasts, their cloth hands at large among the assembly, glass fabric dense with the elm’s excision, the chestnut, the ash. 2:6 The oldest hive scrapes a little flesh from the heart, or the heart’s surrogate: is heard as mere beast among the blackened monuments. In the field around the tongue, Christ’s garment-song. Cleanse one’s house of every midnight plasma. Self’s onyx scaffold, mitigating the watch. The animals never make God their bride. 2:7 Or, like athletes, the white houses dream in medieval time, cruelty’s scarred city. 2:8 At home among the officers, the scar all but stilled by the dead’s glass touch. Fire in music’s compound eye, a visible god cast like prey against the forest, that distal liturgy. Perhaps the eye parts in the heaven of animals, a great silence whither every shadow lay glistening, the flames’ brined felon, flesh-friend to God. I’m sorry, I’ll demonstrate the trick again: we are unmaimed. The forest’s heavy children watch. 2:9 Or perhaps the body lies deep enough, after all: a bright leaven, song’s medieval guide or gaud. (I say music but I mean theft. Just think how much things tell, from their circle inside the fire. Someone gathers empty fruit, city prayers: to have and to hold. ) The windows, though: they touch hunger’s eye, the clean wolf-eye of this vagrant world. In the little bell-clearing of the body, reach out, carefully touch the eye of God (like a sparrow waiting). Sing your wolf-hymn to the eye of God through the lips of devastation’s fist, hand’s smallest antiphon—its ancient edge, ridged and teething. 2:10 Let’s call it a lamp, the door’s tiny brother. Milk’s new town, always the greater light—rhythms of siege and shelter. 2:11 The locusts have no king, suspended like souls queued beneath unyielding glass. (The dead make sense as animals, perhaps—memory’s half-thawed grove, its copse of pollards, waiting. Tooth, friend, I call upon the forest’s million broken eyes.) 2:12 You go to work in the factory, and then the factory goes to work in you. The sheriff draws his circle of praise round about your lesioned feet, in yellow paint. Thus your pitiless ancestors seared the Earth around that cool spring— 2:13 and REND your heart, which like a garden shimmers in prophecy’s crude wavelength. You, hive-tongue, gate of flesh. Dream now, come touch death’s white sea. You can almost hear time among the beasts, these stones. Insect time, apparel time. (Jabès: “In the desert, fire is a mockery.”) Invisible season of the wayfeast: now . 2:14 Forsaken, this patch of earth in day’s quilt. My observance, pillaged by flame, taught me fever’s gospel. As for pageantry, a bit for psaltery and shawm: In the field I found a book. It was covered in blood. In the field I found a star. It, too, was covered in blood. I gathered both in my apron and took them home, to wash them— How they screamed. The question I asked, again and again: what sort of music did lepers make? for themselves? or for others? If we knew this, would love still be possible? —What is the ferryman’s citizenship, is what I thought I heard you ask. My mistake. 2:15 Free lily, free radical, free märchen , free church—echo’s flagrant priest. A hungry octave charts faith’s russet tone. The mowers turn from their labor, left destitute among strange languages; they see straight through the animals’ long days, their libraries of pain. Inside the forest-made wound, the green breath of the world— You can hear it, the shofar’s clean and makeshift perigee, hapax legomenon. An ark, a nest, an eyelash’s delicate camber between you and all that lightning. 2:16 Parliament of nurses, the city’s clear motion-banquet, any flesh will do. I smote a milk in its orphan fleece, that you carry. Schism decrees, loudly, starve the tent . 2:17 In which the priests of the past salute the priests of the stranger across dust’s copper shore. In which, without music, the body makes hair, mostly. Rather gather day in the dead’s soft hands. Because one may make a body without music, one may set the stones closely, carefully (and call that weeping ). Or, the hand’s lame animal takes sole possession, almost visible. Take heaven, left back among its glittering primes. (As for gossip: the eye’s mercury, lame mammal in day’s mouth. Work the prey as cladding, cloak, zeal, something the heart let back in amidst the city’s silent reign.) I lift the myth from its yellow plate and set it back down again. There is no sense in treating the alphabet as a trembling in the forest. In darkness, your green mouth shaping the right name when I turn. 2:18 Punctual, this revolution. (And the nurses in fear of [ wolves ] [ wasps ] [ leviathan ] fold the washed bandages, replace them gently on night’s shelf.) 2:19 The dead, long since manifest, make their orchid-ways inside the flesh. Children nestled outside the heart may lift their heads, may seek the palace prayerfully glistening among thorns. Now , little city, cast and gather—cast and gather what ye will. 2:20 The great dark chancel of the body’s bell (orchid of the invisible) laves its Galilee. Day’s blind odor, left lame in the blood-ark, less darkness than a voice (a ghost, a theft, a pressure). —What does it preach, Master? 2:21 The first address is to the land, and it goes like this: want carefully, and fear not. (A pentatonic scale.) The world’s flesh-course, acute possession waiting in the still eye of the muscle, a god (like a god, waiting)—its plangent folds. Myth asked the world for its organs, two ancient wars by the great granite sea. Go, Master, quietly outside the body. This page bears where night crept, breathing. 2:22 The second address is to the beasts, not all of them but those “of the field” with their vested interests, their broken, tiny sacraments, what never a tongue nor house might heal. Ho, beasts of the field! The world bears its difficult eye, which you may now drink. Drink the eyes, yes, before the great milk sea and all its most tender prosthetics— the cold tongue’s Christ-tenement, sleeping music’s master-green. 2:23 The third address: to the children: say it slowly, bring the gift to bear: the instruction, NOW, MAKE A TOWN. The silence behind every page, a worship-well. Really, just try: be God’s prelate grove, always a bright silence in the mouth. The former rain, the master teacher, God bears within His body (or almost, so the animals aver and affirm). Yet cast not away the dawn glade’s piping music, nor turn every breath towards fire, sleeping. Men learn almost nothing through time, the skin’s single lymph, that worships day. —Hence, a new town. Tell us new things, the smallest distance friendship measures. Go on, try. I dare you. I’m watching. I hold the bow in my hands. 2:24 Every great waiting’s last call and rhythmic cast (set fast into touch, a blind dart). First gather every orchid, read the testament. First the chapel, first the axe. First gather something blind, then further along, the beautiful city (like a flesh) opens. 2:25 At the point God turns and, heard (the things man proves impossible!), stows His blue breath: another finite point, neither gash nor gland. God’s silent prey, clearing the blind from the presence of some other god(s). Pray away, as the dead gloss the field, part skin, part knowledge. 2:26 Taste the lily’s broth. Taste the breath-sine. Taste the black bread of the poem’s city-heat. Savor winter’s mouth-speech, its smallest sea. Taste this winter-Christ, the church clothed in exile. Taste warmth’s green mercy, upon which the children sprawl. We think they’re sleeping. We hope they’re sleeping. Taste the waiting fruit, make the green tooth suckle. and yes, the small room once appointed for the lepers: take me there, (silence’s) true and perfect stent, inside its prone mammal. O taste and see, little glass church of the blind eye, heat-bearing, fur-bearing, little glass town. Empty light within this new little town. Empty light within new glass, as if sleeping. 2:27 The eyelash: not ashamed. The master-body: not ashamed. Time’s eye knows everything like all prostheses, cast around worship. Day’s million hands bind the sea. 2:28 First, touch the past’s page, its lucid well. Then, empty the past. First, call the church together, I mean from within man. Two bodies well-met asked the world: who bears the animals’ scapula? What is surfacelessness? To whom have I cleaved? 2:29 Friends, this is important. God presses forward: towards time, light, music. I am merely your brother-lamp, creaturely in every aspect. But: we can be visited. Sleeping perhaps outside our first door the cold eye’s miles and miles of nought. Night’s gum bears silence’s cast, whither shall we nurse? Imagine the space around a child’s discarded kite, mollusc in the rubble. Next, imagine what the dark might bear, if the dark could carry. Then, imagine the dark. Everyone circle, watch, imagine, turn. The hand’s small eye-tent, its plasmic skin. The hand, tuned to prey’s zeal, glistening (outside, among prey’s silent fires). Healing : part stone, part invisible touch. 2:30 A brief catalogue of wonders: everything music bodies forth, part flesh, part orchid, part God. Beryl. Heaven’s empty fruit, that science sucks. Things bent outside the making world, for instance the two great margins passing across time. Prey’s possession, like all small debts visible in any green thought. ( Omit Mutter Museum, Fractal Museum, National Children’s Museum of Exploding Toys. Omit wild horses.) The tongue’s lamp, anatomically correct. Smallest night creatures, around which myths clothe and muster. All matter. War’s bright, greasy trumpet. Any desert my brother bears, in lieu of a church. 2:31 That sound—locusts? Tongues of fire? A dew in the high places. Let the animals tell the lost what lame worship wanted, after all. 2:32 Broken, like the great light in breath’s house— Call . This time, it’s a choice, as with apparel. Little mouth, every glass takes your sharp hand. Place the call upon the body. The eye’s milk-well, a brotherly stone. Time’s vast broken music, over which your badge passes. Let me tell you what I taste: the church’s difficult silence (vs. the forest’s). I think of you tonight, having been abandoned by another lover, greater. Sometimes, the sea bears touch’s silence away. 3:1 Where distance went, later, there is always a second master. I stood in the court of the prison and spoke of poetry with another man, a younger man. At that point I remained unscarred, I bore all the usual organs within my one regular body. Even the blood, the breath must house ancient children, I volunteered—Christ bears nothing green (through the eye) was his response. Each week I made the trip, sometimes alone, on foot, sometimes with the beast who was, for a time, my companion. (O companionate beast.) War’s music makes the tongue hum. He had, the young man told me, no memory of the crime for which he had been sentenced, although since he woke, later, covered in that blood, he presumed his guilt. At the shore, later, splendid creatures went on imagining nothing, breathing in the great dark cold skin of the sea. The church makes everything quite small and every war a friend, he guessed. I thought: heal this green well, Master; heal the night, or whatever time calls its other king, brother-arson, sibling-sea, every sensible sorrow: set the lamp to worship, fly. Then I moved from that place. I read in the newspaper, in the light of the trumpet vine, when his appeals ran out. Take back either birds or (invisible)memory, I argued: with distance, the lamp’s skin at the door’s blind edge. Sent, yes, and yet the proper chaplains must find this tedious—all this broken talk. 3:2 The first of the cipher-valleys, where the wind had sculpted the tongue’s brute respiration, a breathing skin. Two difficult things: the mouth, sleeping; milk. What does the tongue worship, then? I thought, perhaps just touch Christ’s door, and go. 3:3 On the buying and selling of children: for the cash to purchase a prostitute, or for wine. (Elsewhere: for silver, or a pair of shoes.) I had written: if a math, I hope / a clean / equation— that for which one casts lots, if one is a soldier (and who, in this century of war, is not a soldier?). Cast away, behind the famished arsenal, the milk-sense of the animals, this war’s lamp, alert and choiring. 3:4 Or, you can bet on the girl, as the soldiers say, Earth’s maimed green nescience. But you must read silence’s beautiful tower first, its aria at the edge of the sea. Turn always inside the blood, speak . Brother, close the organ-case, lock the glass. 3:5 My goodly pleasant things: everyone’s last armistice, whether perhaps marking out another pain or waking the incision. Reparation plays nightly. Empty light, make sense out of the nothing that brought you here, bedighted. Speak first, green tooth (or suitor; I track your cinders among the potsherds, the blazing marquee). Even the hawthorn is susceptible to triage, war’s cataract and theorem-torch. Except that nobody steals a hawthorn. The palette hauled from the village in its canvas sack: all the master tones, their stitch and fletch. You said, Nothing that man imagines blinds the eye. 3:6 Go up, thou bald head. Go up, thou— (Enter bear.) Now take the children away, back past all visible flesh. 3:7 Meaning, then, the resurrection (in facsimile, at least). I want to say this very clearly: LITTLE NIGHT CREATURES, PLACE ME THERE, AMONG THE TWILIGHT BODIES. Me, always the last child brought lame to the sea’s myth. Which is why, when you said “Set a place for everything, even the war,” I did so. In exile. 3:8 It’s the logic of Job’s daughters all over again: children, children, we can always make more, you sell mine, I’ll sell yours. Yet breath perhaps lay near, a tiny town, came within a few bright motes of pearl, of echo.... Speak, Master, imagine music. The resurrection, though: try blood’s mouth-glass, the tongue’s heavy blood. 3:9 Prepare: sharpen the fountains to their diamond depths. Stock the chapels with broken glass, salt the avenues. I could myself play a long note on a wren’s thigh bone—having killed a wren, or found it dead. Your breath Magdalenes you, partisan. 3:10 What the dead man thought first, he thought with his tongue: all the old stories agree. Also the broken page must first mask the blind, and suffer. Friend, tell me a little about the Earth, your place among its robes, its master-distance. Milk the bodies (of their pasts, their castes; later, music). Yet the sea’s broken tower, everything the eye wears, Christ’s bright patch. The fields lie unattended, the orchards all destroyed (locusts, fires, armies). I who lived in the burning orchard now live in the burnt. In the distance, people queued to view the bodies in long rows. 3:11 Almost legibly the white uniform assembles itself. Thinking lends a combustive edge to God’s discrete direction, towards which the sycamores bend. “I do what I do in sensely ways, not crazy ways.” Sprinkle the sulfur where previously clean things had rested, where the ache raised a boil. “Red thing hung up like on a cross”—don’t be afraid of the dead, the veil’s “potential visitors, with labors and contradiction.” 3:12 Enamel, fossil, abdomen: Awake 3:13 and thrust in the sickle, because it’s harvest time again. (I read that on the threshing floors, within the vintagers’ presses “traditional morality was often relaxed,” which enabled something like informal courtship. Comes music’s heavydrawl, friendship’s dusk-academy, a little bell inside the body chiming softly at, say, Compline. Friendpain, the blond room’s sea-lantern, which I sense rather more than I actually see.) 3:14 The second of the cipher-valleys, every second stone through which the night passes (never quite enough). God’s little forest, broken off inside the church. Speak now, dark edge of time’s carafe: multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision, glass’s single distance borne right through this nave of the world and its crutched celebrant. Little night-companion, sharp lamp: I don’t tire of your blurred rood, your anxious chrism. Let the mason gouge every stone, let him fill all the wards of the infirmary. (Theodore of Mopsuestia’s variant text reads “sounds rang out in the valley of judgment.” That, too.) 3:15 Which is to say: we will choose, yes, but in darkness. (Will we be judged in darkness?) 3:16 The vintager’s knife, an ancient implement, related to the grafter’s knife. A sociable debt, very loud knives, as far as knives go. Look, here I have a diagram of one. You may cover your ears, you may set your mouth as a dwelling among the evergreens. 3:17 In their natural park, the strangers ripple—the heat tunes them like instruments. You may hire a little ship to move among them. Fire’s labials suggest some sort of mouth-like part. Shooting directly into the wall of ice, its abandoned sanitarium. Every shot’s gravity, as if the thorn of exile had been returned to us, borne on the backsides of living men. 3:18 The third of the cipher-valleys: the Valley of Shittim, a.k.a. the Valley of the acacias, a.k.a. the torrent of rushes, a.k.a. the torrent of thorns. —We shall be at play in the torrent of thorns, indeed. The pasteurized groves towards which the dead resort (beneath hunger’s plank, lapsing green into war’s nerve). Animals bear the master-myth again, past the blind, past the palace. May want, may lamb, may flock. Little blindbody, alive, alive-O. 3:19 Exile slakes this, the event that’s imminent vs. the one that’s already happening, now. A few earnest souls are still arguing over “trumpet” vs. “shofar.” Mercy’s gift-toll (takes music’s wound and shadow, notches its leather belt). “Some have spoken, to be sure, of the reflection of the sun on the wings of insects.” Shed as vowel-blood, love’s thinking lathe, abandoned trestle over which the moon’s bone travels. We’re past the self-disclosure oracle as well as the assurance oracle. One critic notes, “waiting is a mighty deed.” 3:20 Or, not locusts, rather “peoples, tongues, governments, and kingdoms.” Can you feel me when I touch you here (pause), here. Concede the form of a question, concede form as a question, and what then? Another almost-wound traveling through the forest at night. But we may dwell here, we are permitted. The third garment may keep its guest. (See my entry in the Book of Guests, see “skein of birch,” milk’s lame worship.) 3:21 On the cleansing of the blood: from the tooth to the fig to the yoke. The young bride, or widow, snatched from sight, a parched toy. The truth, when it comes, pronounces . How many incisions are required? The tools the priests bear in mourning may also be cleansed, for they are cast in blood. I was there, I slew their armies. (Remember, the locusts have no king.) * Perish, nation of pierced children. I wrap you in my flag of questions; I will not watch the messengers come from death’s distant city—they know me by a different name. The clouds deny that they have broken me. Brothers, surely you know all the ancient plays: the child with cancer, the desolate palace of unrequited love. Wars versus their generals, surely the smell from the streets was a dream’s long incubation. At dusk, the long shadow cast by simple bread—I stand in it, it’s my child—God blinked once, twice and then night’s lavra descended. In this place three swans, two living, one dead—pain’s Rorschach: two elm trees, no, an idle lover on a fire escape, smoking, no, an animal with the hide of a map. Faith reigns here, invisibly. I wash the stone steps, which are my prayers—with my rags I wear them clean of inscription, day after day. Many corpses decorate the landscape of faith, which is my country. Bees nest in their softening lungs, as Milosz claimed. It’s not a dream, what we’re capable of. Or else some slender green shoot pierces them. And that’s good, right? That wick of compassion, so far from any sea—my warder’s back is arable land, facing the plow. It is possible, it must be (theoretically) possible, to build a city from corpses. I stepped out onto the rock shelf and undid my sadness, let it fall from my chest and loins. I asked, how do I wake a trap from its long sleep, as of tears? I dwelt in the side of a tired hill, like a rib or a cancer. Even there, the servants of the state came to me. Even there, unmarked graves bound in tongue. There was a harp I wanted to buy. Someone else bought it first, though my credit was good enough (at the kiosk of available harps). Still, I felt, I thought, sometimes, its puncture in the night. Out of the pot, cleansed of its fine sand, faith, ready to be devoured. Instead I rubbed it on my arms, my chest, both cheeks perhaps this was the problem: I didn’t know what to do with faith, what others did with faith. When the musicians began to play, I neither danced nor sang nor mourned. I watched them, lined up like teeth in the darkening hall. I built a bridge with it, or tried to. It fell deep into my throat, lodging there like a clef, a scar. You see I am terribly serious, though I laugh often. It’s death that laughs in me, a king I once knew. The uncircumcised graves of my terror provoke me, captain. (Thy trumpet preacheth blood, friend.) What they required of me was my wife, outside the house of praise. NOTES Prefatory to writing this poem I referred to two ancient commentators on Joel (Cyril of Alexandria and Theodore of Mopsuestia) and two modern commentators (Hans Walter Wolff and James L. Crenshaw). Section 1:12 refers (“the marking song”) to Karin Tidbeck’s novel Amatka . Section 3:11 appropriates quotes from Alabama folk artist Emmer Sewell (in interviews conducted by William Arnett, from Souls Grown Deep , vol. 2, pp. 178-191) and from René Char (from The Word as Archipelago , p.29 in Robert Baker’s English translation). Thanks to John Estes and to Spark and Echo Arts for commissioning this piece. Close Loading Video . . . And then their gifts looked up, in the shadow of the stranger. I beggared myself at the treasuries of wind. Download Full Written Work