The Gerard Manley Hopkins Redux

            or Pointless Parodies of a Pedantic Poet

Deeeeeeply Dappled

Oh so confus'd am I, ever the intrepid Priest,

Behold conflict no other before,
Living or deceased,
Have ever experienced or known in their lives, such fruitless wail, my sordid cries,
Though Manley be my name, worship and poetry be my fame.

So I see, unlike those foolish, kings and queens around me,
The glory and beauty of dappled things,
Such as trout and gout,
Landscapes plotted and pierced,
And criminals fierce,
And preferably hanged.

The Hoover

About the chapel I scurry, mindful of Christ, mind full of worry,
For what do I do, what can I say, my heart, in pain, my eyes veiled,
With misty tears, whisper'd fears, not a spot of cheer,

Good Abbot refers to me, calls out,

Hopkins you fool, I would prefer,
Should you do your burden, rather than try learnin'

You task is simple, your calling mundane, you need not worry,
Of speaking on the parapet, of quoting from the bible,

Believe me, you are no starlet! And all I've asked of you,
Is to hoover the carpet!

My Grandeur

This world is charged with a grandeur of mine,
It will fan out, papers filled, men and women thrilled,
And Jesus too, will love my work, and even the Abbot,
That old jerk,

Will be forced to witness, my great ascension,
For my poems will bring lovers to new dimensions,

And to the peasant's market, I'll bring the carpet,
And toss it aside, or give it to a farmer's bride,

O can Christ hear? The Holy Ghost, is he near?

Poetry runs and broods with warm breast and with, ah!
The best.

[I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day]

I wake and feel the fell of dark, not day,
Upon humble bed of hay and twine, I witness such hours of night,

Sharp sound, rings across the cell, from within I release,
A single sigh, though I must confess, following a shrill cry,
I sweat here, hope I'm blessed, that tis not the dead who stir.

Who would get up to ensure, for my heart is weak,
I cannot bear to take a peek,
For my flesh does leak and my legs, too shaken to sneak,

Another sound, heavy and mean,
I shout so hard I fear I've popped my spleen,
My door swings open, I pray for the visage of a rabbit,

But to my relief and surprise, twas only the Abbot.

Who, What?

As the snow tumbles from God's grey sky,
When ashen cold leaves me shaken, wet, and shy,

I ponder the validity of my choice to be a poet,
Because if you don't know it, I also believe in the Lord known as,
God, Christ, the Holy Ghost,
The biggest, greatest host, he who knows and owns the most,
Would He not smile on my labor, or would He be another hater?

I cannot know His will, bless'd or no, unknown to me He shall be,
Forever more,

But would my words still breed relief,
For peasant, warden, king, or chief,
And if they do, am I not obliged,
To craft them constant, as fleas or flies?

O but this chilled torment that dots my face,
God doth not speak in this frozen place.

Where on Earth
(God's Earth)
Upon which mountain,
Within which gilded fountain,
Would I find thee, my Lord?

Is there an oak I can climb,
Or a drink, imbibe,
Or even a poem to scribe,
That allows me to see Your most gracious and golden face?

O what would be the case,

In which You would reveal to me,
You shall peel away the mystery,

And shed light upon that which is told to be bright,
But makes this poor priest think more of night,

This eternal fight,

To witness that which is holy,
That which is solely,
Righteous.

Puzzle

Puzzled, I am,

Like a muzzled dog, I drool and bark,
Uneasy of writing, of praying,
Unable to bear fighting or slaying,

No king's man am I,
But for the man who is king of kings,

Am I worthy?

A poet, they all scoff,
How lowly,

A priest they exclaim,
In that there is no fame,

My own thoughts on the matter,
Drive me mad as a hatter,
And make my wallet and soul no fatter,

Christ I am puzzled,
And feel as though I've been hustled.