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No one will believe me when I proclaim that I

Heard the Voice of Jehovah Poet twinkling

In the Mister Softee truck song, exhaling sighs

In the ignition of buzz saws, blessing-sprinkling

In the dandelion-white whispers of stale air,

Clearing throat and “ahem”ing jack hammers

Under my city window.  Who will let me share

This mystery sounding – His staccato stammer?

The devil is in the details.  So is Heaven!

Don’t wait for castrated angels bearing trumpets.

God calls us now head-on.  Disguised as our brethren,

Our hairstylists, the homeless and the local strumpets,

Messengers sent by the Most High bark, bong, quack, coo,

Squeak, screech, clatter-bang and whistle Dixie for you.

     



Anne Babson's work has recently appeared in Iowa Review, The Chrysalis Reader, Southampton Review, Bridges, Barrow Street, Connecticut Review, Rio Grande Review, English Journal, The Madison Review, Atlanta Review, which gave her an International Merit Award, California Quarterly, Wisconsin Review, The Red Rock Review, and many other publications. She won the Columbia Journal Prize and the Artisan Journal contest, and was nominated for both 2001 and 2005 Pushcart prizes.




As a poet, I listen carefully for the voice of inspiration in the oddest places, not in clouds of blooming daffodills but in the things I am more likely to encounter in a complex urban contemporary world.  For me, the sublime is a fundamentally spiritual encounter with the otherwise mundane.  It is the poet's job, in my estimation, to ferret this out for the non-poets, because they can't see joy in the same places that the poet can see it.





 





  


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