olivet poetry. | Ollie Burgess | Substack

Recent posts

When Saints Die

(a train of thought while staring at an ikon of St. George, who coldly stabs the metallic skin of the sea beast.)

Aug 23, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

the borealis in Georgia

the aurora borealis is likely looming overhead while I make a pact with this silicon roof

Jun 8, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

call me Ishmael — or call me the stutter — of a Mediterranean wind, or call me the ice — that dams up the river — call me anything but Israel.

May 18, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

History the sapling

its two little leaves chase light across the sky, teetering and twisting in the exasperating chase of time, and yet. . .

May 4, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

salamander phoenix

morning birdsong is the twittering of your mercy: the nocturnal beasts who sought my life are dead.

Mar 16, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

for the four little birds who couldn't see the northwestern window.

Mar 2, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

then Homer sang him everything

Homer’s eyes were flayed sunfish, often bandaged. the wound was the currency of the gods, the sword Homer bought to march music into words.

Feb 9, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

the moth and the holy fool

a folk tale etched beneath the shadow of an ancient cathedral.

Feb 1, 2025 • Ollie Burgess

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