by Poppy Teague | Summer 2023 |
During my time at Leipzig with ACU Music this Summer, I wrote a poem every day in my journal about an experience I’d had. These are a few of my favorites:
THOUGHTS IN THE VILLA ON DAY ONE
There’s a world outside this skylight,
and it clashes with my knowledge
of the way things should be. I
will look closely tomorrow,
on street level, to know
the world as it is.
MUSIC IN THOMASKIRCHE
I thought I knew what music was,
and what it wasn’t, though I wished it to be.
But strains like light called me a fool,
and the bowing of strings
told me, in one voice, that
music will always be uncatchable.
even to those who think their
delight is done:
The trick is not to believe it.
HILLSONG IN THE PARK IN THE RAIN
My skin is clammy, and
I dab my paintbrush on my leg; nothing’s drier.
I suppose I’m singing in this foreign language,
like these people speaking in tongues from
watching American television,
and hearing words
again
and again.
Maybe God knows my tongue is tied.
Maybe he’s sending
a stadium of Germans –
or just one –
to teach me to speak.
THE BODE MUSEUM, BERLIN
I wandered around corners
into rooms full of triptychs,
seeing the face of my Lord
as seen by those who came before me,
and I saw ghosts,
and I saw God,
and I heard breathing from the ancient busts,
and my eyes saw more than they ever have,
in solitude and silence, and thousands of years.
LOVE LETTER TO THE BERLIN PHILHARMONIC
It takes a measure of devotion that twists your heart
To transfer your passion to others.
I can say only that I believed I loved it like you did.
MARKPLATZ IN JUNE
Some songs have no tune,
clicking along like a blind man’s stick on cobblestone,
or the stiff whir of bike spokes
or her token sort of laugh,
or a broken piece of glass, crunching like
Summer leaves under
these shoes
could use a bigger sole,
to keep my feet on track,
in tempo with the cracks of
platz und strasse many, which
traffic copper pennies
to him when he plays
his songs
have no tune:
he’s out of practice. But
rack this up into a ruckus, a
campaign to suck us of our
long laughs
are like a balm, a salve,
and some songs have
no tune.
YANN TIERSEN IN THE SQUARE
I heard something so familiar
A song I’d heard as a child, over and over,
across the planet,
in a place I’d never been,
by people about whom I knew nothing.
I heard the goodness of God
spilling over the same beauty
that I can recognize as a traceable thread
carrying across decades,
back to when I
heard
something so familiar.
DRIVING FROM BUCHENWALD
Luxurious bliss, to drive away from this place, when 56,000 did not.
What mercy is this, so close to my face? The glistening tears of mein Gott.
SLEEPING IN GEWANTHAUS
The strings hum; I nod
in approval.
The basses thrum; I nod
appreciatively.
The flutes pipe pure light; I nod,
rapt.
The clock ticks; I nod
off.
SPIN
See the round horizon.
Find peace when the breath
leaves your chest.
Where I shouldn’t dare to be is my home.
I will seek it out.
POPPIES
I am named for everywhere the red blurs by.
The highway gardens,
the fields, the purses slung over a shoulder
in the train station.
Klimt saw something the way I do:
Wild. Reaching.
Blood against the
blue of heaven,
always looking up.
