Glass mountain pool,
minnows flitting among stones,
of this world, yet not.
Copyright 2019
T. Allen Culpepper
Glass mountain pool,
minnows flitting among stones,
of this world, yet not.
Copyright 2019
T. Allen Culpepper
Giant rock turtle
sunning itself for eons
on a towering crag,
unconcerned with permanence,
secure in the long-enough.
Copyright 2019
T. Allen Culpepper
It must be an ancient place,
the way the mountain has eroded,
maybe sacred once to one tribe or another
in a time when life was simpler, more elemental,
and still it feels like a sanctuary–cool, dark, and silent,
but for the soothing fall of holy water,
and the avian choristers’ anthem.
Translucent green leaves filter the sunlight,
dark branches like the leading
between colored pieces of stained glass
telling old stories too distant to easily believe.
Like an empty cathedral, a tranquil, reflective space
that fills with one’s own belief or doubt.
But these stones were never hewn by human hands;
there’s no need for a preacher’s pulpit or bishop’s chair,
or even the allusion to some lost paradise
from which this place takes its name,
because divinity comes here
to touch the earth, to breathe the air,
to mingle with the waters.
Copyright 2019
T. Allen Culpepper
I’m attempting to learn Danish, so just for fun (bare for sjovt), here’s my attempt at a translation into Danish:
Eden Vanfald
Det kan kun være en gammel sted,
på grund af hvordan eroderet bjerget,
måske hellige en gang til en stamme eller en anden
i dag da levet var enklere, mere elementære,
og stadig er det som en helligdom—
kølig, mørke, og næsten stille,
selvom den beroligende falde af helligt vand,
salmen sunget af fugle.
Gennemsigtig grønne blade diffunderer sollyset,
deres mørke grene som bly
mellem stykker af farvet glas
at fortæl historier for lang væk til at tro nemt.
Som en ledig kirke, et roligt rum som fyldes op
med mands egen tro eller tvivl.
Men disse sten blev aldrig skåret
af menneskers hænder;
der er ikke behov for prædikants eller biskops stol,
eller for allusionen til nogle tabte paradis
hvorfor den tager dens navn,
fordi kommer guddommelighed her
til at røre jorden, til at trække vejret i luften,
til at blande med farvandet.
The natural beauty reigns, of charms the queen,
in this western city alive and teeming,
between the mountains and the sea.
The beauty queen’s Crown rises along with Seymour,
the route to the royal court across the Lion’s Gate beams,
between the mountains and the sea.
Staking its claim over the Harbour, like that opera house down under,
Canada Place spreads its white and sail-like wings,
between the mountains and the sea.
Burrard vistas from the winding seawall circling Stanley Park,
with its Lost Lagoon, and English Bay sunsets from the beach,
between the mountains and the sea.
Ferry rides over blue waters to Granville and Victoria islands;
on foot or bike or boat, its sights gleam, its air so clean,
between the mountains and the sea.
Copyright 2019
T. Allen Culpepper
For Maria Spelleri
Stage-dressed all in pink,
crepe myrtle dances with wind,
scattering petals.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper
Confetti petals
strewn by the rhododendrons
litter the hard stones
in a pattern suggesting
the rocks themselves have blossomed.
Copyright 2017
T. Allen Culpepper
Duck feet wattle-splat
against the pondside pavement
after morning swim,
reconnecting life-deadened
spirit to nature’s rhythmic pulse.
Copyright 2016
T. Allen Culpepper