[et_pb_section fb_built=”1″ admin_label=”section” _builder_version=”4.16″ global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_row admin_label=”row” _builder_version=”4.16″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat” min_height=”669.5px” custom_margin=”-44px|auto||auto||” custom_padding=”||20px|||” global_colors_info=”{}”][et_pb_column type=”4_4″ _builder_version=”4.16″ custom_padding=”|||” global_colors_info=”{}” custom_padding__hover=”|||”][et_pb_text admin_label=”Text” _builder_version=”4.16″ background_size=”initial” background_position=”top_left” background_repeat=”repeat” custom_padding=”0px|||4px||” global_colors_info=”{}”]<\/p>\n
by Poppy Teague\u00a0 | Summer 2023\u00a0 |<\/b><\/p>\n
During my time at Leipzig with ACU Music this Summer, I wrote a poem every day in my journal about an experience I\u2019d had. These are a few of my favorites:<\/b><\/span><\/p>\n <\/b><\/span><\/p>\n THOUGHTS IN THE VILLA ON DAY ONE<\/strong><\/p>\n There\u2019s a world outside this skylight,<\/span><\/p>\n and it clashes with my knowledge<\/span><\/p>\n of the way things should be. I<\/span><\/p>\n will look closely tomorrow,<\/span><\/p>\n on street level, to know<\/span><\/p>\n the world as it is.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n MUSIC IN THOMASKIRCHE<\/strong><\/p>\n I thought I knew what music was,<\/span><\/p>\n and what it wasn\u2019t, though I wished it to be.<\/span><\/p>\n But strains like light called me a fool,<\/span><\/p>\n and the bowing of strings<\/span><\/p>\n told me, in one voice, that<\/span><\/p>\n music will always be uncatchable.<\/span><\/p>\n even to those who think their<\/span><\/p>\n delight is done:<\/span><\/p>\n The trick is not to believe it.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n HILLSONG IN THE PARK IN THE RAIN<\/strong><\/p>\n My skin is clammy, and<\/span><\/p>\n I dab my paintbrush on my leg; nothing\u2019s drier.<\/span><\/p>\n I suppose I\u2019m singing in this foreign language,<\/span><\/p>\n like these people speaking in tongues from\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n watching American television,<\/span><\/p>\n and hearing words<\/span><\/p>\n again<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span>and again.<\/span><\/p>\n Maybe God knows my tongue is tied.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n Maybe he\u2019s sending\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n a stadium of Germans \u2013<\/span><\/p>\n or just one \u2013<\/span><\/p>\n to teach me to speak.<\/span><\/p>\n \n <\/p>\n THE BODE MUSEUM, BERLIN<\/strong><\/p>\n I wandered around corners<\/span><\/p>\n into rooms full of triptychs,\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n seeing the face of my Lord<\/span><\/p>\n as seen by those who came before me,<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span>and I saw ghosts,<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span>and I saw God,<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span>and I heard breathing from the ancient busts,<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span>and my eyes saw more than they ever have,<\/span><\/p>\n in solitude and silence, and thousands of years.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n LOVE LETTER TO THE BERLIN PHILHARMONIC<\/strong><\/p>\n It takes a measure of devotion that twists your heart<\/span><\/p>\n To transfer your passion to others.<\/span><\/p>\n I can say only that I believed I loved it like you did.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n MARKPLATZ IN JUNE<\/strong><\/p>\n Some songs have no tune,<\/span><\/p>\n clicking along like a blind man\u2019s stick on cobblestone,<\/span><\/p>\n or the stiff whir of bike spokes<\/span><\/p>\n or her token sort of laugh,<\/span><\/p>\n or a broken piece of glass, crunching like<\/span><\/p>\n Summer leaves under\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n these shoes<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span> <\/span><\/span>could use a bigger sole,<\/span><\/p>\n to keep my feet on track,<\/span><\/p>\n in tempo with the cracks of\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n platz und strasse many, which<\/span><\/p>\n traffic copper pennies<\/span><\/p>\n to him when he plays<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span>his songs<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span> <\/span><\/span>have no tune:<\/span><\/p>\n he\u2019s out of practice. But<\/span><\/p>\n rack this up into a ruckus, a<\/span><\/p>\n campaign to suck us of our<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span>long laughs<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/span> <\/span><\/span>are like a balm, a salve,<\/span><\/p>\n and some songs have<\/span><\/p>\n no tune.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n YANN TIERSEN<\/strong> IN<\/strong><\/strong> THE SQUARE<\/strong><\/p>\n I heard something so familiar<\/span><\/p>\n A song I\u2019d heard as a child, over and over,<\/span><\/p>\n across the planet,<\/span><\/p>\n in a place I\u2019d never been,<\/span><\/p>\n by people about whom I knew nothing.<\/span><\/p>\n I heard the goodness of God<\/span><\/p>\n spilling over the same beauty<\/span><\/p>\n that I can recognize as a traceable thread<\/span><\/p>\n carrying across decades,<\/span><\/p>\n back to when I\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n heard\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n something so familiar.\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n DRIVING FROM BUCHENWALD<\/strong><\/p>\n Luxurious bliss, to drive away from this place, when 56,000 did not.<\/span><\/p>\n What mercy is this, so close to my face? The glistening tears of mein Gott.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n SLEEPING IN GEWANTHAUS<\/strong><\/p>\n The strings hum; I nod<\/span><\/p>\n in approval.<\/span><\/p>\n The basses thrum; I nod<\/span><\/p>\n appreciatively.<\/span><\/p>\n The flutes pipe pure light; I nod,<\/span><\/p>\n rapt.<\/span><\/p>\n The clock ticks; I nod<\/span><\/p>\n off.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/span><\/p>\n SPIN\u00a0<\/strong><\/p>\n See the round horizon.<\/span><\/p>\n Find peace when the breath\u00a0<\/span><\/p>\n leaves your chest.<\/span><\/p>\n \n Where I shouldn\u2019t dare to be is my home.<\/span><\/p>\n \n I will seek it out.<\/span><\/p>\n <\/p>\n POPPIES<\/strong><\/p>\n I am named for everywhere the red blurs by.<\/span><\/p>\n