August A. Helpling
Welcome. Follow the angel to read Augustus' work, or take my hand to read his author bio. Remember all roads will lead you home eventually. Thank you for stopping by.
Selected Works
How’s Your Transition Going? featured in Jeopardy Magazine 58th edition
This Poem is Called... featured in Angel Rust 10th edition
About the Poet
Photo by Anastasia Simms
August A. Helpling, occasionally known as Augustus, is a poet and writer transplanted and thriving in the American Midwest. When he isn’t writing, teaching, or working on his MFA, you can find him at home making soup, or out by the train tracks eating fresh figs. He holds a BA in English Creative Writing from Western Washington University. His work is featured in Angel Rust, Jeopardy Magazine, and Troublemaker Firestarter.
The Marigold Rabbit - An Excerpt from the essay On Quakerism and Poetry and the Truth
It is Sunday morning and I am sitting in a beam of white light on an upholstered folding chair in a still and silent basement, surrounded by people listening for the small voice of god. I am asking the small voice of god what it means to tell the truth. I am breathing in ancient book dust and golden divine light and the voice of god is quiet and mumbling. The voice of god, or the voice of me, or the voice of nothing, is saying… is saying… hold on. I cannot make out the words so I close my eyes to listen closer. In the blackness behind my eyelids I can see a bioluminescent marigold rabbit in the distance. I walk towards them but they hop away, leaving stardust in their wake. I pick up my pace but the rabbit moves further and further away. I am running through a warm inky expanse, breathing hard, and the stardust lands in my open mouth. The stardust tastes like dandelion honey and mountain peak sunrises and park bench laughter. The rabbit is not a rabbit but a child, still glowing, still skipping away. I am closing the gap between the child and I, and when they turn to look back at me I can see that the child has my eyes. The child is me and I am fourteen years old, and I am twenty-one years old. I call out to them, I ask them “What is the truth?” And they say, “Hold me.” I am still running but they have stopped. I reach out my arms and when I finally, finally catch up we collide in a heap as all of the air leaves my lungs, my ribcage is empty except for the golden light of stardust. I am holding them. I am holding me.
Train Track Ritual
(after Oliver Baez Bendorf)
