By Gerald Manley Hopkins
I 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-vermilion.
Often, when you read a poem by Gerald Manley Hopkins, you are struck by the majesty and beauty he can put into his poetry. He has this unique ability to put so much into so little and create an image that carries within it both the imagery of the moment, and the feelings that he felt. The majesty, and almost other worldly power within this poem describing a bird of prey grants itself towards a supernatural and religious interpretation. Gerald Manley Hopkins manages to convey his feeling of both togetherness with the bird and how this bird brings him closer to God. In this sense, the bird is like a messenger, a symbol of the idea that mankind has certain levels that we cannot reach.
We blindly follow
There is a stranger in the skies
He plans our life and our demise
He plans the fortune of all men
And watches as his cinema unfolds.
Like a producer picking props, and writing scripts
The stranger puts us on his stage like wind up dolls,
And we so gladly dance to his commanding tune.
“Free-will” he laughs,
what a silly proposition.
“These toys of mine
Think they can do my job.”
We pray to him, and say we are created in his image,
Just like a doll is made in ours.
But beauty in the dappled things,
The speckled, frazzled, freckled things,
and that fresh, floral, autumn smell
and in the ringing of a bell,
must mean a certain thing as well?
Whoever made it
must have been
at least a little bit
I too, believe in God, I must admit.
How could pure chance such rare beauty make?
And life unfold in perfect unison?
the new religion of the human race.
Her answers do not satisfy my taste.
But after all perhaps God has long left our world,
And we’ve been running this disaster in his stead.
And when he comes back from his million-year rest,
He will have to fix our petroleum filled mess.
Or maybe God is part of all of us,
and we must mend the errors of our past
and stop the past from crushing this green Earth
so that it doesn’t turn a broken brown
Who knows which way of thought is right,
The truth is a subjective term that changes often,
Maybe the being in the sky created a mistake,
And our land is long forgotten.