Dylan Bragg

Who am I?

A cow at market to be sold,
A hen, a harp, a bag of gold,
A wife who tells her husband lies,
A common thief of normal size
Whose blood has a distinctive smell—
My bulk impelled how hard I fell
When he outran my lumbering legs
Who listens while collecting eggs.

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Who am I?

I can’t see, hear, or use my tongue
Because, when I was very young,
I witnessed a horrific scene.
I later met the Acid Queen
Who tried to open up my mind.
But I remained completely blind
To Truth until my mastery
Of Pinball finally set me free.

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What am I?

I’m up before the day’s begun
And set out earlier than the Sun,
Announcing to the Earth and Air
His imminent arrival there
With dripping tears and rosy fingers.
The brief time that my presence lingers
The world’s enchanted by my light
And celebrates the close of night.

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Who am I?

Down in the lowest, inmost layer,
Neck-deep in ice with my betrayer,
I feed on him that immured me.
Your speech says you’re from Tuscany
So you’ll have heard of Hunger Tower,
But not of my most desperate hour
When, as I chewed my hands in madness,
Starvation overpowered my sadness.

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Who am I?

Unmarried man, beware my bite,
For I am the Screech Owl in the night;
I am the demon devouring souls
Of children, mentioned in the scrolls
That comment on the Pentateuch,
Mother of every monster or spook,
Sucker of blood and seed of life,
Your first father’s first true wife.

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Who are we?

Although we both were old and poor,
When strangers knocked upon our door
We brought them in as welcome guests.
Others denied their meager requests
For lodging, food and drink; but we,
With modest hospitality,
Unknowingly were host to gods
Who spared our goose from desperate odds.

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Who am I?

I met my friend in a wood, at night,
Under a lonely lamppost’s light
Beyond the furry winter coats.
His horns and hooves were like a goat’s,
And he invited me to tea—
It was all very queer to see!
I didn’t stay long or go too far
And sensibly left the door ajar.

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You've correctly identified the parable and correctly interpreted it according to the most commonly understood reading of it. Good job!

Yes! 🍕💯💰🧠🍻👏🎁🍪

I've now been allowed and asked to share more details about what's going down at the University of Oregon, which involves imminent announcement of firings, among others, of tenure-track and tenured faculty. Given the units impacted (see below), please share this with your professional networks in related disciplines and start getting ready to put pressure (or begin putting pressure already) on the University of Oregon upper admin to abandon this alleged plan before they finalize it. It appears that, with no prior consultations, the departments of Religion and Classics (two separate units), and the programs in Russian, East European, and Eurasian Studies, German & Scandinavian, Judaic Studies, Arabic Studies, and Holocaust Studies (the latter five all parts of a previously-consolidated mega unit called the Schnitzer School of Global Studies and Languages) are facing imminent announcement of elimination (expected the week of Sept 7), with layoffs of pre-tenure, tenured, and career faculty in these units. The reason given is "financial exigency" -- upper administrations of several universities across the country (and in blue states like Oregon also) appear to be giddy to use the context of Trump attacks on higher ed to dismantle the humanities. Faculty at OU won a faculty union not long ago; this may be, in part, a retaliation for that, I've been told. The union is working with AAUP, etc.; my understanding is that the maximum spotlight is needed at this point.

A massive attack on several humanities units (Arabic Studies, Judaic Studies, Holocaust Studies, Classics, Religion, German & Scandinavian, Russian/East European/Eurasian Studies) *and* tenure now unfolding at the University of Oregon (a blue state!). Closure of units and faculty layoffs threatened.

What am I?

A Scientist in days of yore
Conducted from my upper floor
Experiments on gravitation.
Due to my gentle inclination,
The setting was ideal. But those
Observing would not bend, and chose
To deny the proof in plain sight,
Saying the Philosopher was right.

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Who am I?

(Inspired by Riddle 9 from the Exeter Book)

Back from beyond the Great Green Sea,
My true parents abandoned me
Before my life force fully formed.
But when the frosty weather warmed,
Preferring me to her own brood,
My foster mother brought me food—
A bastard bird, from whom the shame
Of jilted husbands takes its name.

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Who am I?

Here where I drew my final breath
A shrine commemorates my death,
Where four knights from across the sea
In God’s cathedral murdered me,
As every pious pilgrim knows.
Their rationale, in standard prose,
Is what the reading audience learns
In a verse play by Thomas Stearns.

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Who are we?

Removed from civilization’s cares,
From uptight snobs and straight-laced squares,
We munch on this narcotic tree.
A chronic case of apathy
Comes over us, and we’re so wasted
The moment fruit or flower is tasted
Or smoke of smoldering leaves kicks in
That we’re not sailing home again.

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Who am I?

Out of the woods, a river flows
Into a field where wheatgrass grows.
And there, where tilth and treeline meet,
I rule, from my luxurious seat,
The fruitful seasons of the land
With golden scepter in my hand
And silver stars that cap my crown,
Bedecked in pomegranate gown.

#poetry #riddle #tarot

What am I?

Lightning strikes, and white-hot sparks
Touch down like calligraphic marks
On skillfully constructed stone.
From there, two human figures thrown
Escape destruction, smoke and fire.
But like the crown atop my spire
That once stood sturdy, proud and tall,
So too went they… before the Fall.

#poetry

Who am I?