Craig Like Taxes: Marching Through Gaul

1. Auflage 1990
ISBN: 978-0-916379-65-0
Verlag: Digitalia
Format: PDF
Kopierschutz: Adobe DRM (»Systemvoraussetzungen)

E-Book, Englisch, 112 Seiten

“Like Taxes, by David Craig, is an impressive book. In an age dominated by the secular and characterized by the pretentious and trivial, we are fortunate to have a book so rooted in authentic experience, and serious concern. Craig is eager for the fullness of the religious experience, but he does not let himself be deceived by the superficially religious. He is a subtle enough theologian to know that God hides in strange places, and reveals Himself as He wills, not as mortals might imagine. The best way to encounter Him is to get on with your life- driving a cab, talking with friends, eating supper-and staying as alert as the hunter is for the deer. These are the hunter's poems.”-Howard McCord

Autoren/Hrsg.

Craig, David

Inhaltsverzeichnis

1;Table of Contents;10
2;Preface;14
3;List of titles of poems Sun;16
3.1;New York in Broad Daylight;17
3.2;Young Monk;18
3.3;...the praise which is;19
3.4;Where the Houses Lean to Greet You;20
3.5;Speaking Dog;21
3.6;Taxi 2;22
3.7;Parked Taxi;23
3.8;33rd Brithday Poem;24
3.9;Sealed Days;26
3.10;Cleveland;30
3.11;Persecution;32
3.12;Second Coming;33
3.13;Repentance;34
3.14;Hide and Seek;35
3.15;Our Father;36
3.16;Hyperbole;37
3.17;Once;38
3.18;Versailles;39
4;Moon;40
4.1;Psalm #42;41
4.2;Winter;42
4.3;Christmas Night Cab Stand;44
4.4;Marion Sector;45
4.5;OUT OF AFRICA;50
4.6;Room;51
4.7;Joseph in the Dungeon;52
4.8;Gethsemani;53
4.9;Litany;54
4.10;"Christ Bearing the Cross" by El Greco;55
4.11;Pastoral;57
4.12;Mulberry Leaves;61
4.13;Poem Begun While Listening to Beethoven's EROICA;62
4.14;Downtown Steubenville;67
4.15;Linda;68
4.16;For Paige;69
4.17;After FRAGMENTS OF My LIFE;71
4.18;A Sick Man's Hands;73
4.19;Nursing Home, 3rd Shift;76
4.20;For McVey, in the Wake of Her Murderer Lover;78
4.21;Photograph;80
4.22;The Dance;81
5;The Apprentice;83
5.1;Becoming Apprentice;84
5.2;Inviting Winter;85
5.3;Christmas with Ed and the Remote Control;86
5.4;The Apprentice is Amazed;87
5.5;The Apprentice Rejoices;88
5.6;The Apprentice Wavers;89
5.7;Apprentice as Columbo;90
5.8;The Apprentice Eats Glass;91
5.9;The Apprentice Sees Himself in the Sunset;92
5.10;Graceful Exit;93
5.11;The Apprentice Considers Fleas;95
5.12;Stop the Murder;96
5.13;New Age;97
5.14;A Capella;98
5.15;The Apprentice in His Groove;99
5.16;An Apprentice Goes to a Prayer Meeting;100
5.17;The Apprentice Prophecies;101
5.18;The Apprentice Considers his Addiction;102
5.19;The Apprentice Muses Matrimonial;103
5.20;The Fire on the Mountain;104
5.21;The Apprentice Counsels a Not-so-Young Rilke;105
5.22;The Apprentice Speaks of Retirement;106
6;About the Author;107
7;Howard McCord on LIKE TAXES;108

Leseproben

New York in Broad Daylight (p. 4)

(for Jack)

In sunny Central Park

I see Him,

a Child flying a Japanese kite,

the kite itself. Pot-bellied,

He plays a hot corner.

He waves beneath His chin,

jogs uphill with the horde and I feel

all the grass growing inside me.

Great grey buildings

become mice. Blind, they crawl, new-born,

squeaking. Paintings along the sidewalk

learn French, drink coffee.

A Julliard student plays viola

to my violin:

the careful crunch of cheesecake,

Village cafe. And later,

all the small people inside me bop,

the Flintstone theme on sax, Washington Park.

I see Him, with brush and can,

face streaked,

as billowing orange letters,

noisy cars, zip past.

Young Monk (Denver)

Wine, water,

like the red patch, yellow body of a peach

in a bowl, sit

behind layers of fine lacquer,

two millenia of pews

in the bowels of the dark Catholic

Church.

And on the cross up front,

on the wall behind the gold,

the altar, I feel the body, the wound,

in new water, draw,

feel the corresponding motion

without noise.

Mass and, after, outside,

capped clothespins hold the flapping

bedsheet canvass, day: yellow sun head

tucked in a coat of trailing,

above-the-trees, wrap-around blue.

Garrulous birds and the sweet

smell of pine needle.

A calling. Fine as my stride,

elevated as the caps of waves,

spray and shingle, celibate air.

This life for Life

and a walk through the trees.

...the praise which is

a thousand mosquitoes, their silver droppings

to the river, the ripples,

is assembly lines on the banks under trees,

the clanking, seeds twirling down,

small dimes shining in the mud, or the

faces of thin, French nuns in procession,

fortune tellers with the Infant of Prague

in store front windows,

it is the clear apprehension

of a rotten, flagging fencepost, and the strung wire

which binds the sky on measured knots, small wrists.

Wrens gambol in the woodbine,

in the mouthings of syllables which, just now,

it seemed, we had spoken as if with our own mouths,

are honey, down through the tall trees,

lolling on the flowers, or Roman

boots marching through Gaul, a beachball

in the sand.