Sonnet on Beauty and the Good

(30 December 2008)

My eyes bedimmed by fleeting shadows drear,
Accustomed to an umbered light, now blind
To brighter things, I stumble as I wind
Along a road that ends at last, I fear—

The portents with the wind that whips my ears—
In dust, as that I tread the same in kind.
I tremble lest the things I've grasped I find
To melt and rust away as journey's end I near.

But th'setting sun uplifts my setting soul
From solid earth to liquid, flaming skies,
Sets fire to the settling, sombre coal
By awful sparks drawn in by awe-filled eyes.
The sky's alight! And lifts my soul aflame
Into the ether air, afire again.

Sonnet on Love: To My Brothers and My Sisters by the Blood and Water

Thy heart is not thine own: Christ’s blood was spilt
To ransom that which is most rightly His:
Dispose it not where thou alone dost wilt,
But only if thy Master also please.

Though tempted by the warmth of Passion’s flame,
Yet guard thy heart, from which thy life comes forth;
Of Love, this Passion proves to be the bane,
In thine own eye diminishing Love’s worth.

Content to rest behind thy Father’s shield
A child asleep, until He doth awake
Thy heart to truly love another, yield
Thine all to Him, Who is most fit to take.

Within the arms of thy dear Saviour rest
‘Til He awake thee—whole, and pure, and blest.

Sturmschreiben

I.
A rose, a sunset,
God speaks; He speaks as well in
Lightning and thunder.

II.
Through my window flickered
Lightning, flashing fire in the sky;
What could I do but wake to watch it?
The chariot of God passed by.

III.
The storm is passed, the night is gone,
The morning comes with birds in song.

IV.
A flash, a thunder,
God speaks; He speaks as well in
Shadow, a whisper.

"The LORD is slow to anger, and great in power, and will not at all acquit the wicked: the LORD hath his way in the whirlwind and in the storm, and the clouds are the dust of his feet." ~Nahum 1:3

I Have Been Washed, But Am Not Clean

(Spring 2007)

“I have been washed, but am not clean;
In me remain the fruits of death:
I breathe the very breath of sin
And struggle ‘gainst my fulsome flesh.

O God! Will you not pity me,
Who strives to serve your holy will?
Can I not hope to e’er be free
Of struggles with the fiends of hell?

Can I not hope, except my death,
In which you take me to Thy land
To e’er be free of my old flesh
That strives to pull me from Thy hand?

I know that I am justified,
And nothing in Your eyes can change
The status you have given me
But still this struggle, bitter cup,
I wish to pass away from me.

The worst is that I know you’re pained
When I deny the cross I claim,
By disobeying thy good law;
With filthy hands, I fall in shame.”

His speech thus closed, the servant fell
Upon his face before his King,
Who, rising from His golden throne,
Did raise the prostrate to his knee.

Then, bowing down upon His own,
The King close clasped the weeping man,
And wept Himself, the flowing tears
Commingling as they dropped upon their hands.

And then the servant glanced upon
His hands held in the King’s strong grasp;
As flowing o’er his fingers, tears
Behind them left a cleanséd path.

He saw the tears were red as blood
And were indeed, for as they cleansed
The filthy stains, they covered o’er
His flesh and salved his burning shame.

The servant cried the harder when
He saw this grace dispersed afresh
And clung the tighter to his Lord
In sorrow for his weakling flesh.

“O God, my God, I don’t deserve
To be forgiven yet again;
How could you love a wretch as I
Who stumbles on the smallest stone?”

The King would answer not, but clasped
Him closer; tears anew did fill
Their eyes, and silence reigned.
The servant lifted up his eyes
To meet his Lord’s, and then a smile
Rose on the servant’s lips as he
Did hear this word come from the King’s:
“Child.”

“Simon Peter said unto Him, ‘Lord, not my feet only, but also the hands and the head.’ Jesus said to him, ‘He that is washed, needeth not, save to wash his feet, but is clean every whit: and ye are clean...’” John 13:9, 10

“For ye have not received the Spirit of bondage, to fear again: but ye have received the Spirit of adoption, whereby we cry, Abba, Father.” Romans 8:15

Blow, Ye North Wind

October 2006

O'er the mountains high I stride:
A wint'ry blast down the mountainside
Tears at my face and at my eyes-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!

I reach the top, stand on the hill:
The fiendish wind drifts fell and chill;
My breathing life it tries to still.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!

And as I face the sullen draft
Against my face, I must needs laugh,
For all ye blow away is chaff.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!

Against thy cutting current keen
I press, as devouring demons teem;
I shall defeat thee, thou damned fiends.
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!

Yes, damned thou art, thou fiends who throw
Thy sleet, intent to make me bow,
For it is God who sends the snow-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!

And in that final fatal hour
I'll breathe my last in my Father's tower,
And thou, North Wind, deprived of pow'r-
Blow, ye North Wind, blow!

Where the Wind Wills, Chapter 1

It is a bleak evening in January, and the north wind whips across the moors of Devonshire, casting up flurries of snow into clouds and pasting every exposed surface with a fine white dusting of the powder. In its headlong career, it lashes the few frozen trees, which groan as they labor upright, while farmers and their wives lie snug in their cottages, the raging gale kept from their homes by chains and barred doors.

A single shepherd befriends a wind-wearied tree as he builds a fire and huddles with his charges on the lee side of the sheltering trunk. His fingers and cheeks bitten by the bitter storm, which howls its constant animosity in his ears, he draws up his cloak against the bleak world and, resting his back to the bark, waits out the night in resigned fortitude. So do the blessed, by the same bars erected to ban evil fortune from their hearths, deprive less fortunate sojourners of their warmth; but conversely, so do these solitary men, when brought into company with another who likewise bears the burdens of necessity, become a mutual bulwark and draw strength from the knowledge that the same fate that cast them down in the world and out from hospitable society has graciously cast them together.

Still sweeping southward, the gale continues until it tears at the eaves of a lonely cottage—a speck on the empty moor which, despite its diminutiveness, is our particular interest. If the house has a squat to its posture which tends to connote a sullen displeasure at the weather, it is belied by the solitary eye, a fire-lit window whose cheery good humor bids a laughing defiance to the grim aspect of winter, by virtue of the delightful warmth embraced by its walls. Let us, for the moment, leave the contemplation of the bitter weather, and avail ourselves of the human company the warm cottage tacitly offers, if it be not an inconvenience to the inhabitants.

Indeed, as with the wind we drift through the tiny chinks of the wooden walls, we are welcomed by a scene of camaraderie and fellowship that so warms one that he feels, with the window aforementioned, he could only be convulsed in gleeful mirth were he to look a hundred baleful winters in the eye. For gathered around a rough board we find three young men whose uproarious gaiety combines with the crackling of the fire and the shrieking of the wind and the groaning of the cottage timbers into one cacophonous symphony.

The reason for their jollity is not immediately apparent, for the table is laid chiefly with tinned food, a few loaves, and the cheapest of cheap wines, and the clothes on their shoulders have felt the claws of several winters’ winds—they are not ragged, but rapidly approaching such a state. The room—there is one only—is barely furnished, containing the board, the crude hearth, and a derelict couch of sorts, along with assorted stools and shelves on which are ranged the larder and a collection of books. The coal-scuttle in the corner very likely carries nearly as much value in its contents as the rest of the house.

But their conversation soon reveals them to be classmates—Oxford men, it seems—and classmates who have not been in class together, nor otherwise seen each other, for some time. Ah, here we may find the answer to our query: for friends who have seen and endured much together are fain to recount those events and enjoy mutual company, even after long separation, else they likely would not together have seen their earlier troubles through. Let us more closely examine our subjects.

The first has his eye consistently directed to a place somewhere beyond the ceiling, or perhaps contemplating the forms in the woodwork, while he addresses his friends (and himself to the viands). He speaks with a dreamy air, as if he were suspended in ether, and cannot bring himself to reminisce about their college days without appending a lengthy dissertation on the questions, academic and personal, they faced and the principles which governed them (though his marks would suggest that he never found quite how to apply those principles in such a way as to answer the questions). On those occasions he lowers his eye to the table, it is with the reluctant demeanour of one who acts of necessity, not of volition; nevertheless, he is principled enough to avidly apply himself to the contents of his plate before returning to his study of the shadows above his head.

The oldest of the party (by a year) is occupied with the crumbs upon the table, rolling them in his fingers and studying them as particularly as if he were determining their value. When he speaks, it is with a confidence founded on empirical proof. Since he is forced by present company to discuss events no longer in existence, he discusses them as they happened, with only the most negligible and unconscious attempt at commentary. One could suppose with little effort that, if he were ever to attempt enduing the facts with some meaning outside what their own being necessarily implied—and caught himself doing so—then he would afterwards gladly swear himself into oblivion, were it not for the invincible combination of his syllogism “All that exists is matter; I exist; therefore I am matter” and his affirmation of the indubitable Natural Law that matter can be neither created nor destroyed.

The last (and the youngest) is, for the time, an enigma. Though the focus of his gaze could be placed at a point somewhere between his two companions and the fire on the horizontal plane and anywhere between the ceiling and the floor on the vertical, were his second friend inclined to precisely measure at any of most given times, his eyes occasionally take on the unfocused glaze of abstraction and pre-occupation. Though he participates as fully in the festivities as the others—this is his house, and he is the host, after all—his mind seems to have other, more pressing, matters upon it. Though his laughter is the loudest, it is the briefest.

Supper is over, and they gather round the fire with their pipes. Perched upon their stools, they continue their reminisces, progressively more slowly and softly as the fire fades. The wall clock ticks off each revolution as if its hands were counting the milestones on their never-ending quest for the end of the clock-face. It is growing late, and the fire has settled down to sleep, its coals only just alive enough to cast abroad a warmth that itself suggests slumber. Their drowse is sometimes stirred by a draft down the chimney, for the fiendish wind cannot bear for another to enjoy a pleasure which it is denied; but when its chill touch has been lifted, the glow settles into a deeper cast.

The particular one draws his hands from his knees and casts his eyes toward his friends: “It is late, and we were long upon the road this morning and afternoon. If you don’t mind, I think I shall retire for the night.” His host silently nods toward the couch, but they first glance toward their friend, whose seat was braced against the wall. Still does he face upward, but his eyes are closed and his mouth draws breath evenly. A slight smile is upon his face in the satisfaction of having forgotten all questions for the time.

“Perhaps we ought to leave him.”
“Perhaps.”
“He cannot wander far.”
“No. He cannot.”

This having been resolved, and the travel-weary guest having retired as suggested, now reclining asleep on the couch—where, even in slumber, his fingers count the threads of the fabric—the youngest of the three turns to his bookshelf, from which he retrieves a large volume bound in leather. It was a birthday gift which he has carried with him through the years since early childhood; as he turns the pages, he traces the plot of his own life as he has set it down upon the blank leaves.

An abnormally strong draft sweeps down upon the coals, causing them to sputter and flare; by their light he reads, occasionally pausing to confirm that his friends still sleep. As he reads, his face grows gradually more serious and absorbed, until even a casual observer would see reflected in it a heart less in sympathy with the merry company over supper or the somnolent glow of the dying fire than with the windswept and turbulent waste outside his window.

A Sense of Folly

Colin Cutler
March 2008

In the screaming of your anger,
In the mocking of your fun,
I hear the silent tears fast dripping
For the paradise you've won.

In the lotioned, pawing fingers,
In the painted, plastic face,
I feel the tragic, touching fever
That inspires your rising race.

In the hollow sockets staring,
In aimless shuffling of feet,
I see evolvéd phoenix beauty
Where reason's madness, madness meets.

In the love of sugared wisdom,
In the spices on old meat,
I taste your fondness for denial
And empty relish in your teeth.

In perfuméd waves of nonsense,
In the incensed, burning sores,
I scent suspicion ever growing
That the stench of death is yours.

Ah! Ironic man, who raised yourself
And freed your mind from superstitious toys!
Test your senses now and realise:
Who slays the soul and God, himself destroys.

We Are Men

(2006)
In response to “Are We Men” by Mason Cantwell, published in Ecce (Vol. 1, issue 4; 12 December 2005).

By Colin Cutler


No longer will I lie beneath the chains
That long have bound my brothers’ feet and mine;
The fetters broken, fain am I to claim
The name of Him Who freed me from my fine.

Unfurl the flag of victory! We stand
Beneath the banner of our King—the Christ,
Not fearing spite or death by human hand,
For from such death, we will but rise to life.

Our Leader beckons with His nail-scarred hands—
His crown of thorns exchanged for one of gold—
He took those wounds for you, now be a man
And go ye forth to follow One so bold.

Lord, here am I—I place myself in bond
To serve until the end, and then beyond.

The Thread Upon the Loom, V

V.

My eyes were opened then and, glancing round,
No longer saw the sexton on the hill.
“Was all a dream?” I wondered there alone;
In haste I scratched away the grass beneath
The tree, until my fingers scraped on stone—
My finger rested on a carvéd knot;
A cord revealed then, deeply plunging in,
Was lost among the others intertwined.
The ends were hidden, both of mine and each
It intersects, yet formed the fabric which
The rest was carved upon. “It is not mine
To know the end of each,” I pondered then.
My eyes strayed to the speech set down in runes--
"Come death and Hel, or else…” I murmured soft.
The waning sun cast dancing shadows on
The runestone, seeming to awaken men
To war, who slumbered centuries asleep.
I stood, gazed down the hill upon the dead
Within the quiet churchyard sleeping still.
With dusk approaching, terror seized me at
The thought of walking through the graves alone—
But still the sun shone bright upon my face,
And if it set, would yet arise again.
“Come death and Hel, or else—“ My mind was set.
I strode down from the hill and through the graves,
And westward walked unto the setting sun.

The Thread Upon the Loom, IV

IV.

His final words still dinned upon my ear
When I awoke; and, starting to my feet, I found
The sexton’s wizened face before my own.
His glance was keen and searching, and
He quickly asked, “You dreamt?”
Not waiting for reply, he drew
Away the matted grass from where I’d slept,
Uncovering a stone whose weathered stain
Told of an age far older than the church.
Strange marks were writ upon it, and the scene
Some ancient hand had carved upon its face
Was that which Mab had carved upon my mind—
The Viking band upon the bloody hill,
The Saxon horde before their iron front.
The clouds and ground were woven cords upon
A loom which framed the sky, their threads the weft
The warriors stood upon, unknown to them.
The cords were crossed and crossed until the eye
No longer traced the intertwinings, lost
In awe at perfect order there arranged.

The sexton stooped and ran his fingers o’er
The petroglyphs—“The runes,” he murmured low,
“The runes record the last harangue that on
This fatal hill Jarl Aelfgar gave unto
His death-bound men in exhortation fey.
Come close and look here in this corner, see
This man who shrinks away from coming death?
Of eighty, one did fly, and lived enslaved
Among the Saxons, until a kindly thane
Gave him his freedom. To this hill straightway
He came, and built a hut below, where now
The church is standing here. A hut he built,
And farmed the land, yet heavy on his heart
He bore the burden of the blood-oath that
He broke, and with his fevered eyes he saw
Upon the hill the spear-gashed bodies of
His noble friends, though buried at their death.
Their sun-bleached skulls in mirthless scorn
His mind imagined grinning o’er his head.

This man was doomed by fate to be a fool,
Yet fear and cowardice his will embraced,
For fate remains unknown until it comes;
His shame remained and burned his wretched soul.
He carved this stone in memory and told
The story to his son, born unto him
In slavery. The tale was told from son
To son, each one a distant father to
My father—each within this churchyard’s bounds
Was buried—so shall I be at my death.”

He paused, his eyes transfixing mine: “And you?”
He asked. “The threads are woven in their place
And yours has brought you here: you dreamt the dream,
I know—your eyes betray—and now remains
Your choice. Your part is writ, the thread drawn tight,
But Time will keep his secret counsels close,
Permitting not the future to be told.
Each thread is purposed by the Weaver, placed
Upon the loom in perfect order, but
Not knowing future fate, is left to choose
And then must taste the fruit its choices bear.”

The Thread Upon the Loom, pt. III

III.

Behold this flood before us, friends, that fills the plain
And threatens death by overwhelming waves of men!
Behold the helms that gleam with fearsome rays
Reflected from the glowing eyes that glint beneath!
Behold the ash-poles tipped with iron tongues—
Tongues that thirst to lick the blood of fallen foes!
Their spears and swords upraised, and hatred writ upon
Their faces—no mercy there—death is in their eyes!
Behold the dragon banner that before us proudly flies
And taunts us with his flaming gilded visage fell!
The grim clouds lower grey and veil the heavens,
Sending hail upon our heads. Breast the windy waves of rain
Like our ships upon the sea, or the petrel in the gale—
The fiercer that the rain strikes, firmer set your face against it;
When grim skies glower, grin a grim defiance.

Now turn and gaze upon each other, at these men
With whom you have fought and bled and died;
Turn and look upon our crimson banner, bathed in blood
Of fallen friends and foes, with the black death-bird upon it flying.
See his cousins circle above in raucous ranks;
Behold the ravens, hear their rasping cries:
Welcome, harbingers of death! Thy beaks have torn the
Fallen bodies of our fellows and shall feast on ours today—
We hope not for life. It is enough that in our death
You feed on us as well and join us to our friends.
The valkyries ride among the wheeling flock
To take us to the hall of Odin when we have breathed
Our last. Welcome! We are but few, and they are great,
But hope we yet to feed thee well.

Behold our band together! Like a well-wrought sword
Forged by Thor’s great hammer, of the iron men of Denmark;
Hammered on the battle's anvil,
Tempered in the swirling, scarlet spray of blood,
One body and one edge we show; we hold or we shatter.
If one flees, he is as a splinter which was
Never melded in the molten metal, and is foreign to the iron.
Sparks may fly, but we hold or break as one.
He who wishes may thus flee; we shall not stop him,
But the one who flees shall save his life, and also lose,
For in that day, the bond of blood is broken, and he dies.

How many years have we lived as one, friends?
Ten, and twice as many times have our sea-birds
With the dragon prows flown us upon the waters.
Leaving the long halls upon the Northern cliffs,
We wandered to the land of Saxons, to burn halls and gather gold.
Some would stay behind; their wives bade them,
And their families grew; perhaps they now are jarls
Or even kings, descended from the gods of Asgard.
Perhaps they play at games, and honor Tyr—
I think the greater honor for that god is on the battleground,
And likewise men; to make the games of war
In halls or in the kin-strife brings no glory
And empties manhood of its strength.

Ten times now, as the sun’s rays rose
And festivities to Frey for spring began,
Ten times did we gather and arm ourselves for raids.
We cleaned our helms, which covered naught in winter, only carried mead,
We sanded them until they shone with gleaming fierceness.
Then we sharpened spears and swords, and our great axes,
To cleave more yielding trunks than wood.
Blood-thirsty from their wait, our weapons
Hummed as on the forge they hardened once again.
Then our chain-shirts we donned, linked rings
To hold the thrusting spears from our heart’s home.
We girded on our swords, and grasped our ashen spears;
Upon our shoulders hoisted linden shields
Marked with runes to boast of our brave exploits,
And on them pranced painted bears and wolves,
The beasts we strive to match in strength.
And finally our helms, with fierce carvings and beasts upon them,
Flew upon our heads to ward from them the striking steel.

Ten times now, with our armor all aboard our ships,
Did we spread our sails and catch the wind to draw us
To the Saxon’s shore. Ten times now have we sighted land
And roved up quiet rivers to disembark and seize upon
An unsuspecting hall. Then wandered inland, through the hart’s home,
Among the oaks and ashes, cousins of our ashen spears,
Over fells and moors, in search of towns to plunder.
We found them, and fell with fury on all we met.
Great wealth we found: ten times came with empty hands,
Nine did we return with fewer hands, but full.
Nine times, as the leaves turned brown,
Did we return to our waiting ships
And set our sails and oars for home.
Our scything prows cut swathes in the water-field,
And left a gleaming wake behind, in promise
Of our return by the same road.
Then our sea-dragons stretched their wings
And flew until they reached our fjords.
There we furled our sails, our ships
Nestling in their lairs with folded wings.
Nine times did we return burdened with cups and helms,
And golden rings to decorate our hands,
And shields to hang upon our walls,
Mutely speaking of our deeds to all who visited.

We passed the winter at our boards,
Drinking mead within our halls and telling of our battles;
Skalds heard the tales and repeated them in song—
So did we feast in winter. The cold north wind
Blew from the mountains and, howling,
Drove the wolves unto our door, their gasping growls
Reminding us of battle and rousing us to war
Against them, to drive these foul demons
Back into their forest home. Then we tired of this
And gladly waited spring, and when
The flowers and green gave word
That Frey had come again, we sailed forth.

Now in the eighth spring, the country all inflamed
Rose in anger against us and all our fellow raiders—
We hold this not against them; all must fight.
We fought with them in battle, and the slain filled many fields.
The swords had great play then; they bit each other
In the air, then tore the flesh of fated men,
Sating their thirst for flowing blood.
Our spears released the breath of many
Who gladly would have kept it in its prison.
The axes fed the ravens and sang as they split
Life from body. Fell deeds were done.

Dost thou remember the ford in Sussex?
How Thurstan stood struggling against a Saxon band?
In our sleep, the Saxons stole upon us
And alone he held them off, like Odin on Ygddrasill
Was hung upon a tree nine days
And pierced by spears to reach the runes, so did this son of Thor
Stand like a river-stone, and held the Saxon spears
At bay; finally they fled in terror at his iron axe,
And he stood still. The stream began to ebb,
And with it, did his life. We carved a stone
With runes and raised it at that ford for him.
I know not why his thread was cut, and not our own;
I know not why he did not live; he wished that raid
To be his last, and end his roving days to stay at home with Freda.
Many, I think, would lengthen that cord if so they could:
The Saxons felled beneath him would, as well.
But they cannot, nor can we: our time is told.

Fate weaves weird patterns in her web;
I know not why we stand upon this hill,
Or why another Norseman sits safe in peace at home,
But simply that our destiny has wrought
Infallibly our steps to bring us here,
And our doomed part to play is to play that doom to death.
We have no hope of winning; before the sun
Will set behind the hill, our bodies pierced will lie
Beneath the banner, and the ravens on our flesh will feed.
The wolves will join them, the valkyries swoop,
Taking those they choose and no others.
Yet that we have no hope of living matters not:
Yea, still the struggle’s worth the fighting,
For rest content that all our deeds fulfill
What has been written for the world
And bring it ever closer to its foretold end.
Before this blood-bound band of fated men I stand, and here appeal:
Come death and Hel, or else Valhalla, hold ye fast and fight!

The Thread Upon the Loom, II

II.

And in this dream, the scene had somewhat changed
But still familiar: for the hill on which
I took my rest was there, and also a
Meand’ring path that had, in waking, been
A rural road. The country church and yard
Were gone, and all bespoke an older year.
Then from a forest ‘cross the path did come
A band of men, who issued forth in haste,
And had the air of ones pursued full hot.
As they drew near and crossed the path, I did
Perceive their banner flying in the wind.
A fearsome raven on a crimson field:
These men were Viking raiders, pagan Danes,
Whose bands had harried England ‘til their swords
Reeked red with blood. But now they were pursued,
And closely—here, around the trees there came
The vanguard of a Saxon levy, with
Their golden dragon proudly rampant on
Their flying flag, which flew the prouder for
The insults it had undergone while all
Of England lay beneath the raven’s claw.

The Saxons, thus enraged and fearless, chased
Their former dreaded foes where’er they found
Them, and did put to death the ones who fell
Into their hands. This same pursuing host
Had chased this Danish band for days, in hopes
Of vengeful slaughter in return for ev’ry
Depredation they had boldly done.
The Vikings climbed the hill and at the crest
Did stop their fleeing feet and, turning, stood
Before the face of the approaching Saxon
Army, which now fully clearing past
The forest’s eaves was shown to be a great
And goodly host of thousands, raised to run
The heathen Norsemen from the countryside.
Upon the hill the band, which numbered all
Of eighty, gazed upon this mass of foes
Which filled the vale before them; one stepped out,
His dress a bearskin jerkin falling to
His knees, and turning to the company,
Swift drew his sword, and holding it aloft,
His bearded faced did open, and he spoke.

The Thread upon the Loom, I

I

The seed I cast abroad grew naught but weeds,
The words sown to redeem bore mocking smiles
And onerous contempt for all my pain.
The more I swam against the rising tide,
The more it choked and drew me to the deep.
Exhausted and despairing, I withdrew
From the arena to retire away
To silent solitude, intending not
To e’er return unto the realm of men.
“If so they will,” I sneered, “then let them rot.
If they wish not to hear, let them die deaf.
If they wish not to see, let blindness be
Their solace as they rush upon the rocks!
But give my life to save theirs I shall not.
I go unto the fields and birds and hills
That need no saving; trees and mountains high
Shall be my home and only company.
May I forget and be forgotten there.”

And thus I fled the mortal compass, but
I knew not what I sought, and wandered round
The world with aimless steps, until I came
Unto the quiet English countryside.
The need of fellowship I felt, but thought
The grim society of graves best fit
My morbid mood; within a churchyard still,
I pondered long amidst the monuments,
Whose deep inscriptions told of men long dead
Who were thought fit to be remembered thus.
I sought the name of no one, rather let
My eyes rove ‘round and fall where fate would will.
If one I found that held my gaze and thoughts,
I sat upon the grass and pondered there
On what this man or wife or child had been
Or even might have been, but never was.

I therefore loosed my mind to wander midst
The labyrinthine mists of Time’s dark hall,
Midst fires burned down to ashes on the hearth
And feasts untouched within a silent hall,
Whose golden glory faded and decayed.
With spectral crowds I celebrated births
And mourned the deaths; imagination did
Supply the substance to these shadows, strange
Companions. So I danced with ghosts within
The secret, silent halls of Time.
One partner thus exhausted, languid eyes
Would restless wander to the next, and thus
Proceed again to search behind the veil
Of secrecy with which the gravestones
Hid jealously their histories of men.

But sev’ral hours spent in musing thus,
My mind grew weary of this pastime;
My eyes espied beyond the tombs,
But in the grounds, a little hillock with
An ancient oak atop its crown. I made
My way among the graves, until they fell
Behind my back; I climbed the gentle slope,
And I admired the ancient landmark, which,
If it could speak, could tell me every scene
I had imagined, having seen it all.
I ran my hand upon the roughened bark,
Whose weathered visage told of days long past.
And there, beneath the boughs, against the bark,
I lay, and slumber, creeping soft, stept near
And overcame my consciousness; I slept
Beneath the boughs, and as I slept, I dreamt.

A Sonnet of Foundation

Something newer coming soon, I promise. This one just re-echoes a general principle that has been on my mind of late. :-)

(2006)

I built my dreams to castles, block on block
I pulled up turrets proudly standing tall,
And fair indeed the flags flew from the walls;
But for foundations, ether of my thoughts.

They trembled when I then became untaught
Of my delusions—Mark!—the ramparts fell
As sandy walls before the ocean’s swell,
The ramparts crumbled into ruined rocks.

As I surveyed the rubble of my dreams—
The silken flags, now tattered rags—I prayed,
“O fairest Father, well am I thus taught
To build not hopes on things that seem—
The comely face, the modest grace—but staid
Am I to be—my heart built on the Rock.”