Standing vigil for the dying
Comes a time past rhyming when
There are no words to say
So weary and worn away
Are litany and commendation
Standing vigil for the dying
And no toil and no trying
Can yield them a worthy creation
There are no words to say
Then lexicons betray
They dawdle in the time of desperation
Standing vigil for the dying
When comes the time of crying
Unprepared are words of consolation
There are no words to say
All the time to pray
But waiting for the last amen
Standing vigil for the dying
There are no words to say.
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poetry. Show all posts
1/17/2013
1/14/2013
Darkonian funeral prayer
Powers dark that no-one knows,
Hear our petition that you might
Now grant our dead their blessed repose.
Unending stillness now impose,
And rest unending, as is right,
O Powers dark that no-one knows.
In summer sun and winter snows,
In longest day, in Darkest Night
Now grant our dead their blessed repose
For peace beyond their dying throes,
For those that live, grant this respite,
O powers dark that no-one knows.
And as their sightless eyes we close
Accept, we ask, this offered rite
And grant our dead their blessed repose.
May liturgy and prayers and prose
Be satisfying in your sight,
Powers dark that no one knows:
Now grant our dead their blessed repose.
Hear our petition that you might
Now grant our dead their blessed repose.
Unending stillness now impose,
And rest unending, as is right,
O Powers dark that no-one knows.
In summer sun and winter snows,
In longest day, in Darkest Night
Now grant our dead their blessed repose
For peace beyond their dying throes,
For those that live, grant this respite,
O powers dark that no-one knows.
And as their sightless eyes we close
Accept, we ask, this offered rite
And grant our dead their blessed repose.
May liturgy and prayers and prose
Be satisfying in your sight,
Powers dark that no one knows:
Now grant our dead their blessed repose.
1/10/2013
It was seven days delayed
I don't recall the last time I signed in
Before this afternoon. I should have known
That there would be a message in the bin,
Unanswered long enough to be a sin.
So, breathing tight and zeroed at the bone,
I clicked as though the message was a stray
And armed explosive shell. You were alone
And on the train, and missed me; on your phone
You said as much, and sent it on its way
A week ago.
I started to reply,
And wrote you all that I could think to say
Before remembering that half a day
Of time lag separated you and I,
Deleted my response and wrote a poem
To pass the time and let my sleeper lie.
Before this afternoon. I should have known
That there would be a message in the bin,
Unanswered long enough to be a sin.
So, breathing tight and zeroed at the bone,
I clicked as though the message was a stray
And armed explosive shell. You were alone
And on the train, and missed me; on your phone
You said as much, and sent it on its way
A week ago.
I started to reply,
And wrote you all that I could think to say
Before remembering that half a day
Of time lag separated you and I,
Deleted my response and wrote a poem
To pass the time and let my sleeper lie.
10/16/2012
10/15/2012
Letters, mine and yours
Friday's sonnet was no mistake.
I remember when I first wrote you letters, love. The first one was a tear-streaked confession of how badly I'd destroyed my life, and I never expected to hear from you again. The next dozen or so - the ones I'd photocopied myself - were the ones I spent coming to terms with the fact that nobody had ever said "I like you" to me before you did.
I remember this year's letters, love. The ones that I'd reliably turn out once a fortnight, fifteen pages of them, all blue and (eventually) copper ink. The ones where I would sing your praises, write them beautifully and well and mail them off to you with the Amnesty International letter seals. I wrote them all through this summer, love, and you'd be adorable about getting them on Facebook.
And then, suddenly, it got hard.
I remember when I first wrote you letters, love. The first one was a tear-streaked confession of how badly I'd destroyed my life, and I never expected to hear from you again. The next dozen or so - the ones I'd photocopied myself - were the ones I spent coming to terms with the fact that nobody had ever said "I like you" to me before you did.
I remember this year's letters, love. The ones that I'd reliably turn out once a fortnight, fifteen pages of them, all blue and (eventually) copper ink. The ones where I would sing your praises, write them beautifully and well and mail them off to you with the Amnesty International letter seals. I wrote them all through this summer, love, and you'd be adorable about getting them on Facebook.
And then, suddenly, it got hard.
10/11/2012
Epistolary form has its limits
To, more than steady, be a worthwhile boy -
Be looked on as the artist by the muse
And offer to her all the arts I use,
And make my only pride to be her joy -
As yet I can't pretend that this is true.
The letters that you say were writ so well?
Mundane dispatches from the private hell
Of waiting, ever lonesome, here for you
To come home safe. My dear, if I confess
Epistolary works to be a chore
And drudgery, and that you merit more
And better from me, would you love me less?
Forgive me, my beloved, as I seek
A better written voice with which to speak.
Be looked on as the artist by the muse
And offer to her all the arts I use,
And make my only pride to be her joy -
As yet I can't pretend that this is true.
The letters that you say were writ so well?
Mundane dispatches from the private hell
Of waiting, ever lonesome, here for you
To come home safe. My dear, if I confess
Epistolary works to be a chore
And drudgery, and that you merit more
And better from me, would you love me less?
Forgive me, my beloved, as I seek
A better written voice with which to speak.
10/10/2012
Correspondence
Two envelopes on Saturday were sent
To circumnavigate the world, my dear,
En route to you. I wonder where they went,
And where they are, and struggle not to fear
That all the hours with my pen in hand
And midnight oil not have been in vain;
That all my poured-out words might not withstand
The gloom of night, or heat or snow or rain.
And pour them out I did, for you to read,
In copper and in blue transcribed my heart
In tongues of men; I poured them out indeed
For you, so many miles and months apart.
To circumnavigate the world, my dear,
En route to you. I wonder where they went,
And where they are, and struggle not to fear
That all the hours with my pen in hand
And midnight oil not have been in vain;
That all my poured-out words might not withstand
The gloom of night, or heat or snow or rain.
And pour them out I did, for you to read,
In copper and in blue transcribed my heart
In tongues of men; I poured them out indeed
For you, so many miles and months apart.
8/01/2012
Instead of a regular sonnet, 7/31/2012
I really do adore the way you write.
Your style is *graceful* - short and poised and true.
And so I bought a card the other night
And, having bought it, tried with all my might
To write a card as gracefully as you,
To imitate your voice, to forge your hand.
I botched a dozen drafts in ballpoint blue
And butchered several more before I knew
That all the words whose power I command
Had simply proved inadequate for this,
Could *not* achieve that grace that I demand.
No words sufficed.
Beloved, understand
That in the end I gave the card a kiss,
Addressed it to the woman that I love,
And mailed it to the woman that I miss.
Your style is *graceful* - short and poised and true.
And so I bought a card the other night
And, having bought it, tried with all my might
To write a card as gracefully as you,
To imitate your voice, to forge your hand.
I botched a dozen drafts in ballpoint blue
And butchered several more before I knew
That all the words whose power I command
Had simply proved inadequate for this,
Could *not* achieve that grace that I demand.
No words sufficed.
Beloved, understand
That in the end I gave the card a kiss,
Addressed it to the woman that I love,
And mailed it to the woman that I miss.
7/02/2012
In praise of light pollution: a Spenserian sonnet
I stalked the lamplit streets the other night
Alone in silence, searching all around
For somewhere blessed with perfect-balanced light
To safely rest on clean unbroken ground
(Ideally free from automotive sound
Disrupting my most pure experience);
And there I lay my body back and drowned
My mind and soul with all-consuming sense;
And idly pondered, in that immanence
What message there could possibly have been
To see that sky; and wondered what expense
We paid to blot out all the stars therein,
That I might see as never seen before
A universe of blue and nothing more.
Alone in silence, searching all around
For somewhere blessed with perfect-balanced light
To safely rest on clean unbroken ground
(Ideally free from automotive sound
Disrupting my most pure experience);
And there I lay my body back and drowned
My mind and soul with all-consuming sense;
And idly pondered, in that immanence
What message there could possibly have been
To see that sky; and wondered what expense
We paid to blot out all the stars therein,
That I might see as never seen before
A universe of blue and nothing more.
6/29/2012
On caretaking and self-neglect
It seldom fails to awe or to impress
How frighteningly easy it can be
When called upon, in direst distress,
To be on hand for anyone but me;
Heroic, really - deftly plucking specks
From eyes (by now I've learned to do it blind),
Or rescuing the others from their wrecks
While leaving mine for last (since who would mind?)
Though all may be of need, I still believe
That all else equal, they should need it more;
That I may strive, their burdens to relieve,
And my afflictions casually ignore.
For theirs I have no right to hesitate;
For mine, no wish to face them -
Mine can wait.
How frighteningly easy it can be
When called upon, in direst distress,
To be on hand for anyone but me;
Heroic, really - deftly plucking specks
From eyes (by now I've learned to do it blind),
Or rescuing the others from their wrecks
While leaving mine for last (since who would mind?)
Though all may be of need, I still believe
That all else equal, they should need it more;
That I may strive, their burdens to relieve,
And my afflictions casually ignore.
For theirs I have no right to hesitate;
For mine, no wish to face them -
Mine can wait.
6/12/2012
Ode to embarrassment
My constant guest, my old and closest friend,
Come in, come in!, how long you've been away;
I'll always host you - always, to the end;
Sit down, do tell how long you mean to stay?
I'll hang your coat up. Pour yourself a glass
Of all the wine my life has ever spilled.
I'll burn you up a meal of finest class
In all the pots my life has ever killed.
I'll give you, honored guest, my best instead,
So gorge yourself and feast without reserve;
The soup is cold, and doughy is the bread,
So take my plate; I'll have what you deserve.
Do knock next time, before you come again -
But Godspeed, guest, and blessings until then.
Come in, come in!, how long you've been away;
I'll always host you - always, to the end;
Sit down, do tell how long you mean to stay?
I'll hang your coat up. Pour yourself a glass
Of all the wine my life has ever spilled.
I'll burn you up a meal of finest class
In all the pots my life has ever killed.
I'll give you, honored guest, my best instead,
So gorge yourself and feast without reserve;
The soup is cold, and doughy is the bread,
So take my plate; I'll have what you deserve.
Do knock next time, before you come again -
But Godspeed, guest, and blessings until then.
6/06/2012
My words flow not as freely as before
My words flow not as freely as before
To vocalize my love and sing your praise.
It pains me, cuts me deep and to the core
To struggle when I strive to count the ways
You are to me: the holder of my heart;
The harbor for my loud and storm-tossed soul;
The woman that I love; the one last part
Apart from which no part of me is whole...
Beloved, held in every thought of mine,
I walk the widow's walk with tear-streaked face
Until you cross that far horizon line
And I can hold you tight in my embrace...
I broken sing, until your drawing near,
My love for my love, too removed to hear...
To vocalize my love and sing your praise.
It pains me, cuts me deep and to the core
To struggle when I strive to count the ways
You are to me: the holder of my heart;
The harbor for my loud and storm-tossed soul;
The woman that I love; the one last part
Apart from which no part of me is whole...
Beloved, held in every thought of mine,
I walk the widow's walk with tear-streaked face
Until you cross that far horizon line
And I can hold you tight in my embrace...
I broken sing, until your drawing near,
My love for my love, too removed to hear...
5/20/2012
Two kinds of silence
When I'm with the heterodox, we run out of words.
When I'm with the orthodox, we're afraid to talk much.
Praise Allah for the two kinds of silence.
And for the difference between them.
When I'm with the orthodox, we're afraid to talk much.
Praise Allah for the two kinds of silence.
And for the difference between them.
4/30/2012
4/27/2012
Haiku of the Creatures: Epic Fail
Be praised, O my Lord,
Through our Uncle Epic Fail,
Who defines the age.
Through our Uncle Epic Fail,
Who defines the age.
Haiku of the Creatures: Sand
Be praised, O my Lord
Through our Brother Sand; he makes
For such nice castles.
Through our Brother Sand; he makes
For such nice castles.
4/24/2012
Haiku of the Creatures: Rain
Bless our Sister Rain
Who moistens the dry cracked lips
Of the world below.
Who moistens the dry cracked lips
Of the world below.
4/23/2012
On a song
Dearest:
You're gone from me.
You're far away.
No sunshine today. Not warm either.
Now, are these statements related
By cause
Or correlation?
Truthfully, I can't say myself.
I just know that you've been gone
Too long.
I miss you.
You're gone from me.
You're far away.
No sunshine today. Not warm either.
Now, are these statements related
By cause
Or correlation?
Truthfully, I can't say myself.
I just know that you've been gone
Too long.
I miss you.
4/22/2012
Visit to a bookstore
Knowing in advance
Prepares for, but cannot change
Experiencing.
It was exactly where I expected it to be: out of the way.
It had exactly what I expected it to have: the same things it had the first and last time I'd been there before. Shelves of Bibles that hadn't turned over, bought to exploit economies of scale. (And in their defense it had worked. If I'd been in a mind to buy another, it would've been at least $5 cheaper than anywhere else.)
It served exactly the purpose I expected it to: a consolation for its customers, a comfort, a reassurance.
Prepares for, but cannot change
Experiencing.
It was exactly where I expected it to be: out of the way.
It had exactly what I expected it to have: the same things it had the first and last time I'd been there before. Shelves of Bibles that hadn't turned over, bought to exploit economies of scale. (And in their defense it had worked. If I'd been in a mind to buy another, it would've been at least $5 cheaper than anywhere else.)
It served exactly the purpose I expected it to: a consolation for its customers, a comfort, a reassurance.
3/17/2012
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