Gerard Manley Hopkins Poet

Re-reading Hopkins
is like visiting a farmland
where the fruits
of convulted images
and the grain
of sprung rhythm
feed my spirit
challenge my thought
hone my imagination.

I will never touch
a sacred syllable
of his holy, fertile mind.
Yet I am not deterred
rather hopefully inspired.

Like an Evangelist
portraiting Jesus
I can grab a scrap
here and there
and form them
into a picture
reflecting my impression
with desired inspiration.

Not the luxurious phrase
of the mystic Hopkins
nor a romantic image
of the romantic Shelley.
Just a few engaging words
from a worn-down soul
hoping to offer soft surprises
telling othes what
they already know.

Hoping to flatten out
the rough edges of life
without a Messianic binge
in the staggeringly simple verse
from the agonizing thrashing
of cherished, tormenting questions
in a defiant exploration
of sacred, untouchable dogmas.

Thank you, Gerard Manley
unknown in your lifetime
nor in adulation drowned
but in your legacy renouned,
bequeathing immortal poetry
for our feast almost as wondrous
as a sumptuous Eucharish.