Melancholia, by George Freek

It’s frightening,
but everything must die.

The quiet poems in George Freek’s collection belie a grief that has troubled the human soul for all of eternity—fumbling, unparalleled, blind unstoppable grief. Death comes for us all. The living mourn for loved ones who have passed. Grief resides in us, day after day. For the wounded ones, we take solace where we can, funneling the pain of loss in whatever form, as evoked in this reflective, somewhat bitter collection. Poem after poem, it is to nature that the narrator turns his eyes, to instruct, to pacify, to soothe, as he grows old.

Download the collection here.

melancholia by George Freek

Resurrection, by Emil Sinclair

Resurrection
by Emil Sinclair

The cavernous hall
was dead silent,
except
for the echo
of my footsteps
on the cold marble floor.
Slowly I traversed
its considerable length,
until at last,
before the throne
of the Great Lion,
I prostrated myself
as an homage
to His Majesty.
“Arise!”
commanded a voice
booming like thunder
over the lake.
I stood myself up
and beheld His gaze,
as expressionless
and impassive
as the Sphinx.
He looked straight
through me,
as if I wasn’t there.

No, the voice was Hers—
the Great Phoenix,
perched upon His left
shoulder.
Her steely blue eyes,
the color
of star sapphires,
bore into my mind—
indeed, into my soul.
“What is your question?”
She demanded.
I could barely speak,
yet managed to squeak:
“What is death?”
I implored her.
Her eyes blazed
a blue fire,
as a shriek of laughter,
so loud and sharp,
escaped her gullet,
it shattered to shards
the great crystal egg
from which it is said
she herself had been born.
My mouth agape,
I watched in astonishment
the Great Lion,
sitting motionless
upon His throne
not moving a whisker,
even as the raptor
spread her enormous wings,
which grew and grew,
until they touched
the very ceiling.
Her body now
was the width of the hall,
and began to pulsate,
turning as red
as a hot poker
in a furnace fire.

Suddenly, there was
an explosion
that rocked the hall
and knocked me flat
on my back.
As I roused myself,
I saw that there was
smoke and ash
everywhere,
covering the floor
where the crystal egg
had been shattered.
In the center of the debris
I saw a tiny form
wriggling and writhing,
and heard it softly peep;
it was featherless and naked,
helpless and hungry,
crying for food
and warmth.
“Take her!”
bellowed the Great Lion,
rousing Himself
at last
from His torpor.
“She is yours now.”

And so it was.
I removed my wool mantle,
and ever so gently
placed the baby bird
in the folds
of the cloth,
to keep her warm
and safe.
She has grown now
in size and strength,
and always sits upon
my left shoulder,
where she shall remain
forever.

Emil Sinclair is the pseudonym of a sometime poet and long-time philosophy professor in New York City.