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Late Rapturous
Late Rapturous
Late Rapturous
Ebook110 pages1 hour

Late Rapturous

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In his fifth poetry collection, Gaspar's poems are spacious and awake, in touch with faith and anxiety, and unafraid to wander. These poems are multi-layered with Judeo-Christian allusions and metaphysical images of faith.
LanguageEnglish
Release dateApr 1, 2021
ISBN9781637680193
Late Rapturous

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    Book preview

    Late Rapturous - Frank X. Gaspar

    One

    June/July—Eleven Black Notebooks at the Desert Queen Motel

    Then night again. The dry lightning like artillery over the far reefs

    of stone and the thunder-god shearing the air—all the gods in foment

    and calamity, but it is not enough. The rumble and rupture, the shattering.

    Out there in the wilderness. Isaiah, Ezra, their lamentations, insufficient

    in the madness, and me with my tall can of iced beer leaning

    at the railing outside my door, like at the taffrail of a ship, but instead

    of the big turbines thrumming on blackoil, now only the small throats

    of the air conditioners gagging and moaning. The cold aluminum sweats

    in my hand, and I’m pleased for this small miracle, water out of the

    cracked desert air, but it is not enough. My happiness now, with the

    work coming forth in fits and then gouts, is not enough, for it saves

    nothing, yet it is a happiness after all, and therefore inexplicable.

    The stars crowd one another out of their familiar lines. The arm

    of the galaxy, its bright muscle against the belly of the sky. Not enough.

    My heart full or empty, not enough. Now, to set something down in

    the midst of folly, one true word, one simple cry out of the black arroyos

    and dangerous washes, the canyons, the granite redoubts, but the lone sob

    of the desert hen is not enough, the television’s mangled voices creeping

    through the drywall and stucco are not enough, and I am running out of

    time and money, always time and money. And love, I don’t forget love,

    but it’s not enough either, it doesn’t save anything, the graves open for all

    the beloved to lie down in and all the despised as well, and it is still not enough.

    Stepping back into the cramped room I think of that ship again. How a ship will

    fit into the poem at this juncture. Perhaps my own ship from that other time.

    One hundred thousand tons of death and empire. Grand under my feet. Rolling

    with the long ocean swells. Sky like desert sky, shot with the unutterable trillions.

    And the engines banging forward blindly. Into that darkness. Under that blaze.

    Sometimes God Saves the

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