sonnet II

I wrote this sonnet for workshop after reading an interview of Annie Clark, aka: St. Vincent in LA Times.  Her new album is all sorts of amazing and one of the few from 2011 that have really blown me away.  She knows a thing or two about human struggle.


Amen, or, Amidst the Dark Night of the Soul

          "Sometimes the only way through it is deeper into it, to stare at that black hole." - Annie Clark


Perhaps this void will linger here until
your pockets are empty—all desire spent.
You work to eat to live and work again,
fast and confess, but your cup does not spill.
The air inside this old foyer is still;
the only vestige of a prayer you sent
to the Lord without knowing what it meant:
Quiet or storm, with my soul it is well.

The only way out is deeper, deeper
into the absence, to embrace its ache,
stare at oblivion 'til soft winds blow.
Approach the night which grows thicker, blacker.
If wholly for Him and for virtue's sake,
then welcome this darkness.  Let it be so.

ode

Ode to Simon Peter


God bless the fisherman
who left his net dangling
on the edge of his father's boat
to become a fisher of men.

Peter and his rock for a brain:
"Let us pitch a tent," he had said
on the mountainside,
slack-jawed and eyes glazed over
while his rabbi glowed white
and spoke to dead prophets.

Thank goodness for his zeal
when Christ walked across the lake;
he responded, "me too,"
and stepped out of the boat
only to cry, "save me!"
a moment later
with a mouthful of water.

Peter, that adamant and conflicted boy,
first refused to have his feet washed
by his humble teacher,
then insisted his hands and head
be completely soaked once more.

Thank God for Peter
and his declarations:
"Even if all fall away,
I will not."
And his defense:
"I know him not"
one, twice, and again
before the rooster signaled morning.

Thank God for Peter,
for having said aloud
what I keep secret.

murmuration

Wow, this is going to be on my mind for a while:


Murmuration from Sophie Windsor Clive on Vimeo.


Here's a very loosely related poem--only in that it mentions birds (though I feel a series of bird poems coming on after this video).  I need help with the title.  This was workshopped last week and I like the title, but it either belongs somewhere in the poem or is another poem entirely.



An Intake of Breath before the Start, Sometimes Sharp, Sometimes Prolonged


We are born ordinary,
gasping for air, wanting
to be held dear.

We grow to delight
in complexity, to detest
what is obscure or unwilled
—such as penmanship.

We make homes
with whatever we can
like birds in shopping carts.

We allow umbrellas
to suffer in our stead—
broken, wet, abandoned.

We forget so many things:
to water the basil,
to pray before a meal,
to enunciate.

Yet, we tremble
before an uncertain kiss,
breath held at infinity.

ekphrasis

For our workshop class a few weeks ago, our professor, Rachel Hadas, assigned to us ekphrastic poems and accompanied us at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York.  It was many of our first times at the MET, the last Saturday of October, and also the first snow fall of the year.  None of us wore appropriate shoes for the weather, but it was a breath-taking experience nonetheless--soggy, squeaky shoes and all.

Here's a poem I wrote after walking through the Stieglitz exhibit and stumbling upon Arthur B. Davies' "Reclining Woman."

Muse On Color


Neck arched back along
a chaise built from color,
its undefined edges
like water or air.
Posture confessing
a long day spent.

Booklet in hand—
purple Japanese paper; her skin
pale, powdered, blank.

Perhaps she returned
from ballet practice:
hair spun loosely in a bun,
weathered legs bare,
strap of her tattered leotard
hung off a bruised shoulder.

Asleep or in thought—
no matter.  Relieved
to unwind after countless
plies smoother than water,
pirouettes lighter than air.

Mind unoccupied,
no song replaying,
no steps practiced.

An art she has mastered:
to lie on color yet live
without hue.

strange mercy

St. Vincent is really rocking my whispy-voice and guitar-lovin' world right now.

sonnet

To David In the Desert


What heartache is too great a task for God,
too paltry of a matter to address?
How long will you go on with this facade
by which you disguise despair, not digress
from righteous prattle, before you believe?
Where are you when I call in broad daylight?
Preoccupied with facts, how you perceive
your state is no puzzle, only finite.
The Lord who delivered you from the jaw
of the lion will quiet your questions;
the Lord who delivered you from the paw
of the bear will belie your trite fictions.
I beckon you, come, and I call again,
to be with you, thus, as your love remain.

sestina

For my 100th blog post, here is a sestina I wrote recently for workshop:


Deaf Psalm


If I suffer the absence of your Word,
do I then suffer the absence of you?
Though I mutter prayers without want,
dismayed and uncertain, I hear nothing.
So I wait for the God who will love me back—
the one, I am told, who never goes away.

Or is it me who flees, who runs away
when I cannot remember the word
you promised?  Return?  That you would come back
for the broken and lost parts of me, how you
would make something out of nothing,
and give more than I am able to want.

Yet, it does not matter what I want
because, in foolishness, I push away,
fail to see your tender advances, accept nothing
for this solitude, for the lack of word
or sound existing between me and you;
I only envision your turned back.

I have resolved to keep from looking back
to that ignorant age when the want
was unknown, when I could live without you
and be content while such a love was far away,
but since, though faintly, your hallowed Word
has engraved its shape into my small heart, nothing

else appeases my ache for certainty, nothing
matters except hearing back
from you in this babble of self-inflicted chagrin.  Can a word
erase in me such expectation, such want?
If feeling is a farce, will you do away
with my will to trade feeling for fact? You

who dwell somewhere above my head, you
who are here yet not—a God who speaks nothing
audible in return while I waste away
attempting to get back
what I lost.  It is not wind nor quake nor fire I want,
but whisper—an infrequent, right word.

If ever I slip away, ever abandon you,
if a word can accomplish all but nothing,
seize me, take me back.  Your breath is all I want.