Lawrence Hall, HSG
Barefootin’ Among Watermelons on a Summer Afternoon
For J. W., His Dad, and His Uncle Brandon
J. W. is blessed with family and purpose and love
Guided study and chores and structured faith
Happy barefootin’ days among the watermelons
A fishing pole and buzzing-bee summer afternoons
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Feeding the Squirrels and Birds at Dawn
A squirrel sits upon a little mound
of corn
And faces the east with its nimble forepaws
Clasped gently together as if in
prayer
Lawrence Hall, HSG
The Grave Robber of Fifth Avenue
Unferth postures upon the ashes of warriors
The warriors he has despised all his wretched life
Because he is unworthy to be one of them
Warring with only his mouth and never a spear
He mocks their wounds, their missing limbs, their graves
He steals their widows and orphans for himself
As ornaments to his manic caperings
While arrogating honors he could never win
But when the Dragon comes…
But when the Dragon comes, lashing its tail
Unferth will be ghosted away as a howling wail
Lawrence Hall, HSG
J. Alfred Prufrock and the Giant Peach
“Do I dare to eat a peach?” He asked
“Yes, yes. just eat the stupid peach
and stop
Banging on about it,” I replied
Lawrence Hall, HSG
Kafka and the Self-Service Checkout Kiosk
Thanks to Rowan Pelling
Those who have never suffered through Kafka
Should not employ the adjective “Kafkaesque”
The landgraf would not approve
When Gregor Samsa woke up one morning
from unsettling dreams, he found himself changed
in his bed into a monstrous self-service checkout kiosk.
Someone must have traduced Joseph K.,
for without doing anything wrong
he was arrested in the checkout line
one fine morning
It was late in the evening when
the supermarket supervisor arrived.
Kafka, The Metamorphosis. Trans. Stanley Corngold. New York: Norton. 1972
Kafka, The Trial. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: The Modern Library. 1956
Kafka, The Castle. Trans. Willa and Edwin Muir. New York: Schocken. 1982
The hell of self-service checkouts is becoming Kafkaesque (yahoo.com)
Lawrence Hall, HSG
To God, Who Still Gives Joy to Our Youth
Introibo ad altare Dei
Ad Deum qui laetificat juventutam
meum
Missals calendaring the liturgical
year
Mantillas in reverent rows marked out
by children
Children as rosary beads sorting out
the Aves
And men in this-is-choking-me suits
and ties
Candles in colored glass in reverent
rows
Decades of prayers, centuries
incensed with prayers
Corinthian columns in reverent rows
of awe
Or perhaps the humble Doric,
upholding Heaven
Fiddleback chasubles in liturgical
colors
Sequenced by seasons in prismatic reverent
rows
Sewn long ago by loving reverent
hands
Each stitch enriched with a Latin
prayer
Fidgety altar boys in their Sunday
shoes
The processional cross their
grandfathers knew
Nonnas, Nanas, MeeMaws in reverent
rows
The occasional bead-bang of a rosary
against a pew
The occasional knee-pinch to a
squirming child
Latin responses in sequenced reverent
rows
Latin, which later we were told we didn’t
understand
Quia putabant nos stulti essemus
And on the Altar the eternal
Sacrifice
Which no tyranny can ever take away
Sed fuit, est, erit
Lawrence Hall, HSG
If a Book Could Take Just One Human to a Desert Island
Who would it take?
You?
Me?
Dostoyevsky?
A librarian?
