Collect

Prayer of the Congregants at the Penitential Rite

Almighty God, Father of our Lord Jesus Christ, maker of all things, judge of all men: we acknowledge and bewail our manifold sins and wickedness, which we, from time to time, have most grievously committed, by thought, word, and deed, against thy divine majesty, provoking most justly thy wrath and indignation against us. We do earnestly repent, and are heartily sorry for these our misdoings: the remembrance of them is grievous unto us, the burden of them is intolerable. Have mercy, have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; for thy son our Lord Jesus Christ's sake, forgive us all that is past; and grant that we may ever hereafter serve and please thee in newness of life, to the honor and glory of thy name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Poetry: "Nightmare Lyrics," Sonnet VII

I'm working on a collection of poems, which I am hoping to self-publish this summer, fingers crossed. (Self-publish, partly out of a love of cutting out the middleman, and partly because the mixture of overt sexuality with overt religiosity would demand a publisher of such exceptionally broad mind that I do not really expect to find one.) This is the seventh of what, I hope, will be ten sonnets contained in said collection; I'm fairly pleased with it, and it is representative, so I've decided to make it my Thursday non-essay post this week.

"If any man do his will, he shall know of the doctrine." The Gospel according to Saint John, VII.xvii

Broken with beauty in a lover's arms,
Sweetly distressed and stricken down by pleasure,
Exalted by pains splendorous past measure --
And then collapsing in his salt night-charms.
Sleep comes and goes; the Moon looks through the veil
Drawn round incensate touching in the dark.
Fingers on drowsing skin can feel his spark
Of icon-deity, with sweat grown stale.
Is this my heart's desire, this my delight?
I turn to face my own edge of the bed
And bitterly think how the god has flown,
While he, Thy substitute this single night,
Sleeps on. My prayers are mute with things unsaid:
With Thee, without Thee, I am yet alone.

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