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.
Preface for Paschaltide
It is very meet, right, and our bounden duty, that we should at all times, and in all places, give thanks unto thee, O Lord, holy Father, almighty, everlasting God; but chiefly are we bound to praise thee for the glorious Resurrection of thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord; for he is the very Paschal Lamb, who was sacrificed for us, and hath taken away the sin of the world; who by his death hath destroyed death, and by his rising to life again hath won for us everlasting life.