Hymnal of the Heaven-Stormer | Connor Khalil Marvin

Image: Adismara Putri

Hymnal of the Heaven-Stormer

When God looks into the marble slab of me,
She sees Herself. Chisel and hammer in hand,
She is the One who shapes me, chipping away
all that is not Her.

My insides have grown tired
of this furtive distance.
She’s so close, that’s why I can’t see Her.
Closer to me than Myself.

My throbbing wound, oh my gentle perfection,
dots on a grid. Lines between dots. Rippling,
all glowing, rippling. A single jewel
in a 350 degree mirror. Looking like a net.
I’m caught, gasping for water
as She pulls me from the ocean,
into the blinding light.
There is no such thing as “eventually.”
It has already happened.

I strain the kingdom’s rock.
I lift myself in two.
My armor pales in comparison
to my Self. I’m a pit-mine,
stripped-down for change. I’m wheat seeds,
ground to flower by the millstone of the stars.
When it’s i that speaks, it’s really I that speaks.
Say My Name. Ir-Rahman. My breath
breathes through every living point.
My particle wind, My immaculate gravity.
My hammer made of kindness
meets my chisel made of wine.

Feel yourself baptized,
chisel’s kiss
drunken shrine.

When I lay down to sleep I pray my heart stays awake.
Gabriel come and tear my heart from my chest,
replace it with a holy vinyard, so all might drink
and become quenched.
Home is where the heat is
hear the bells ring forest bliss, my God
please hope my supple sin and
consecrate my wand with light.
My God! As who, what voice, where from,
drenched in Sunday, stuffed with lion-blood,
tackled to the brine with fishnet gravity.
Give me gravity. Bring wine to orbit me.
Bring thrones to bow before. Bring doorways
arched filigree, gilded dew. My God!
I remember when Dionysus swarmed.
I remember the ivy on my head. Thyrsus high.
I am a hole in Krishna’s flute
that the Christ’s breath moves through.
Listen to this music.
I am a concert from the mouth of every milkmaid
singing with the myriad chorus.
My aura is drunk. My wake is oblivion.
My tenderest melody bruising hearts.
Make me a vine, make me a grape,
make me a press, make me a cask,
make me a cup, bring Yourself to my lips
so Your taste might stay forever
on mine. Pass me around
this squalid wasteland of Puritans
until reveling takes the night
and lights it on fire. Let the howl
of the Maenads, the Gopis –
frolic and playful, gasping and wild-eyes –
tear down the black curtain
and shred it forever.

Connor Khalil Marvin is a poet, instructor, and ritual specialist based in Golden, Colorado. He currently works as a house witch at Ritualcravt. He teaches contemplative and spiritual practice through his own platform as well as through the Ritualcravt School. He is also a professional Talismaner as Merlin’s Workshop. He has represented Denver at the National Poetry Slam championship four times, and was the Mercury Café 2017 Grand Slam Champion. His first full-length poetry book is out on Albion-Andalus Press, available at most online book retailers. He tries to avoid opinions and welcomes the annihilation of belief by direct experience.

The Year Of The Rabbit | Ted Vaca

Image: Ella de Kross

The Year of the Rabbit

after the blast
or the fireworks on tv
after the kiss or the wish

to sleep eventually
in the den

the morning will come

that huge bright burning giant
will shine
as you are suppose to

in its glory you too will rise

you may shake
then scratch your head
rub your eyes
then open

what a place
we find ourselves on

this big blue and green
scream / a marble
what seems to be

in the blink of an eye

what are you to do
with it

(this is a question asked
with infinite possibilities)

go then now
and do it

do one

quick before the shadow
before the night or the day
for who knows
when you’ll go

best get a heads start
on it
best get to it
best go dancing
put on your super suit
and make your fate

to mean something
where we lie
stand in line
with chance


go be gifted is the line 
the rabbit races toward
if you can run alongside 
the hare
then learn learn it all
open the book that stands
green upon prairie
at dawn
nibble at it
share all you’ve read by others 
that have lifted
the pen the key the grass 
the thought 
the heavy dirty learning
with a dim lamp in the dusk 
yearning for life
go be a gift 
go be a being that lifts 
be akin
a family bearing gems
go be wild 
in life 
and in dreams

dare often as atoms that smash
go rise above the noise
go rise lift yourself up
to give ear
to 	your voice
your 	chance
your 	doing
your 	wish

you put forth
you pull forward

the universe lifts

Ted Vaca, Denver poet father lover crime fighter / semi holy somewhat sweet can be bitter / published here and there / Founder of The Mercury Cafe poetry slam / Coach of the 2006 Championship Denver Slam Team / Member of 1995 Championship slam team from Asheville NC / Intergalactic Provocateur