For if that which is done away was glorious, much more that which remaineth is glorious

Sunday, 28 April 2019

La Passione e Morte (II)

Love's tortured flesh, finite as flesh, its pain
Filled full, with its life's breath ceased. I waited
The god's death whom I bore, blanched while blood's rain
Ran from temple to chin unabated

Till cries were all sunk down to Sabbath rest.
Torches glare long on the slow agony,
But tumult fearing dawn's strange quietness
Departs, though hope grows not as light doth grow.

The splendour and the sword promised at love's birth
Tore entrail deep, as then I knew. Bereft,
A day has come blank both to grief and mirth
And how should I make sense of aught that's left?

A crowbar heaving to a heavy stone,
This pencil dark entombs love's bloodless bones.

Monday, 8 April 2019

La Passione e Morte (I)


Unlike the cool mountain vesper rest – joy’s
Quiet beat replied by bass of night’s fall,
Mind’s sight eyes, sleepless, her unmelting snows,
O'er my bed’s vale her heights swing star-hung tall –

Unlike this toss and turn, this hedged-in room:
Love sickens to drain down death’s heaviness.
I wake astert, find love, bowed in the gloom,
Reproach and smite me for my chariness,

Then trail to face the crowd. The daily crowd
Sees here no deity. They know not what
They do. Stripped common, its furrow over-ploughed,
I hid my face when love’s noon turned a blot.

My nib thrusts to love’s dead heart through his side
To draw in blood. Its well and point has dried.

L'Ascensione (II)