The Heretic's Hymnal

By Laura M Kaminski

"These are not poems. These are not sermons. These are not scented blossoms for the consolation of forlorn hearts. These are shimmering, incandescent lamp posts on the essential path of Truth and the Transcendental. Encounter these Hymns and be transformed." - Umar Sidi, author of The Poet of Dust.

"This questing, soul-stirring book quietly awakens us to the transformative power of hope, longing, trust, gratitude and, ultimately, to ask of ourselves how we might sanctify our days. In the poet's fine formula: Heart is/lamp and lips are wick, and prayer/is flame."

- Yahia Lababidi, author of Where Epics Fail

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balkan Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2019
• ISBN: 9781948263320

Laura M Kaminski

Laura M Kaminski grew up in Nigeria, went to school in New Orleans, and currently lives in rural Missouri. She is the author of several poetry collections and chapbooks, including Anchorhold (2016), Considering Luminescence (Honorable Mention in Lascaux Review’s Poetry Collection Contest 2016). Her poetry has received two Honorable Mentions in the Tom Howard Poetry Contest (2016, 2017), as well as an Honorable Mention in Atlanta Review’s International Poetry Contest (2015). Her poetry has been adapted into films by several video-poetry filmmakers, and the associated films by Marie Craven have received recognition in several international film-festival screenings. She currently serves on the editorial teams of Praxis Magazine Online and Right Hand Pointing.

Book preview

selections from Returning to Awe

Tenuous Existence

We skitter and stagger across the surface of our days,

each disturbance in our webs of expectations

an emergency. We wrap intrusive elements

in spider silk, a make-shift shroud, hurriedly repair

the delicate strings of our routines. The flimsy nets

we build for trapping nourishment are torn and tangled,

sticking to our feet. Life flies through them, and we only

capture wayward bits, and suck them dry. How can we

be steady when we’re swinging in the breeze, hanging by

a thread or two beneath the eaves?

Bird Songs on Branch Water: Indigo Bunting

Repetitive days – the tiny cup I fill too quickly

with a list of my familiar musts –

and drink it down, not tasting what I’ve brewed,

surrender to the habit of getting through.

Morning brings a day that isn’t new –

the mug, not rinsed, contains the dregs

of more unthinking things to do – I swallow

in the usual way from a day that has no room

to hold even an extra hour to stop and wonder

at the calling of an unfamiliar bird, to trace

the sound with full attention, find the source,

discover, and not just glance, but see

the color emanating from its feathers, flashing

iridescence on a field of black, a flaming

diamond set within the fencing of the garden,

an indigo to rival even the richest April skies –

it has no pigments of its own beyond the black,

this tiny bird – it’s just small, clean-feathered,

strong, an empty cup refracting sunlight,

reflecting its blue brilliance, piercing song.

Bird Songs on Branch Water: Brown Thrasher Operetta

An open field with a sandy beach that meets

the creek, some shading trees – and this

is where the small brown thrasher speaks.

His is the treble clef; beneath, the water’s edge

along the bank denotes the bass. Dignified

bullfrogs assemble slowly on wet rocks, position

themselves for maximum reverberation, prepare

to bounce deep notes – tubas, oboes and trombones –

across the creek like skipping stones.

He sings from the upper branches of the poplar –

a complex foreign-language aria. I am lost in

the beauty of the voice – but I cannot understand

a single word of what I’ve heard. When he finishes

his overwhelming solo, I stand up from my log

and shout Bravo! He takes a sweeping bow

across the sky. When he has gone, I wait

for the wind to translate through tree-leaves,

repeat discretely each word of his song.

Crumble and Fall

A collective reservoir of obligations, acknowledged, listed but still

unfulfilled, begins to overflow the dam of daylight, tension bleeding

over, hoping for some release down in the spillway of deep sleep.

Sleep is inadequate – pressure builds, obligations rush and crush

the dam. Waking working hours circle the perimeter of the clock –

the whole day is cordoned off, tension cannot escape, there is

no central park, no place in this geography to take a rest, fall asleep

on a guilt-free lounge chair, a book of poems falling to the grass.

I reach out my hand and gently trap one of the small bodies rushing

out of me like ants – it is a little golem made of wax – and look!

there’s that familiar squiggle, the seal that marks the thing as of my

own design. These mini-drones are shaped like clones of me,

embodied items from the Great List of To Do. Many carry scars

where they’ve been prodded, pin-pierced again and again. The one

now in my hand resembles a voodoo doll of Saint Sebastian, a task

I’ve executed often, and each time I think: it’s finally over, dead,

I’m done – but it re-emerges from the catacombs, returns to the forum

steps again to preach, beseeches me to repent, oppress my subject-selves

a little less, open my heart-gates all the way, set free the imprisoned

slaves, relax the grip of my imperial fist, redact my edicts, let the empire

I’ve held so firmly fall at last, leave the gleaming edifice

of an efficient self, slip away unnoticed into quiet for some rest.

Bird Songs on Branch Water: Cormorants

Double-crested cormorants stand up upon the rocks,

wings outstretched to let their feathers dry. They stand

without moving. The rippling tributary washes their feet.

When we read verses, see paintings of Calvary, we find crosses,

but only three: one holy man, two thieves. I contemplate

other crucifixions, how many were stretched to die this

death in the time of the Empire. Watching these feathered

souls arrayed and drying on the shore, I try to count them,

number how many were mourned and buried unwritten.

Oranges

Love testifying: a dead queen’s tomb for immortality, Taj Mahal –

rays of sunlight race each other over oceans to be first, to crest

the dark horizon, bathe white marble in their orange splendor.

They’ve flown past Babylon, remembering, crossing tiers where figs

and date-palms grew, and oranges, a kingdom’s industry turned

to irrigation, clay pots spilled love into the garden, hoped

the new young queen could fill her longing through the window.

Sunlight journeys and returns, meets gray geese rising over water –

dawn plants an orange kiss on every weathered, feathered breast –

I kneel in instinctive awe, palms at my chest. My fingers curl, suddenly

touch the tail-feathers of my heart when it breaks and sets a course.

Factory Tour

Do you suppose if I were small enough to float unnoticed

in the flow of sap, they’d let me tour the factory,

explore unguided, the whole Yukon potato?