Gerard Manley Hopkins: 120 RIPs

Elaine Kahn, poet extraordinaire is tuned into a stratosphere that I only dip my kite in.

During one of our shockingly interesting and charming G-Chats today, she hipped me to Gerard Manley Hopkins, a Victorian poet who hath just blown my mind.

Born too soon, born too late. And in a typical mischievous turn in this here Universe, my mind was made concordant on the 120th anniversary of his death.

Pour a little gin out for our fellow born-at-the-wrong-time-but-still-so-right homey GMH and read this:


The Windhover
by Gerard Manley Hopkins

Caught this morning morning's minion, king-
dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate's heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of; the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.