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Lama Sabachthani

Laid in a humble binof barley, not feed corn,tonight a Child is bornto save us all from sin. Herod will hunt for them,the parents taking flightcloaked in the dead of night,the town of Bethlehem merely a memory.Egypt must be their home.But long the reach of Rome,and soon wrung from a tree the cry of . . . . Continue Reading »

Sovereign

“Death is king, and Vivat Rex!”—Alfred, Lord Tennyson He wields the scepter mortals must obey:The magistrate and thief, the saint and whore,The millionaire and pauper, wit and bore,Philosopher and dolt—his royal sayUndoes them all.  His conquered foes give wayBeneath an awful . . . . Continue Reading »

Vowels into Colors

A mauve, E grey, I dark, U green, O . . . range.I do not see you, vowels, in color, soany paraphrase is clumsy, strange.But you bleed into one another.  Youadapt and melt.  I feel the textures change.Duffle coat, army blanket, green to brown:color’s a garment taken off, put on.A coded . . . . Continue Reading »

Snowdrops

I planted snowdrops forty years agoWhen I was fourteen; early March they driftAcross the garden, poking through the snow.I see them springing, and my spirits lift.I see them blooming sheltered by the hedge;Some come up in the middle of the grass.They linger by the fieldstones and allegeThat Easter . . . . Continue Reading »

Life of the Artist

It’s said that Caravaggio was a creep,A pedophile to be precise, the kindWho lurked near schoolyards, and one who assignedApprentices to bed for more than sleep,A tavern brawler, too, who had to keepFleeing from enemy and legal bind.(A fever, though, could not be left behind.)Biographies with such . . . . Continue Reading »

The Lost Modernist

David Jones: Engraver, Soldier, Painter, Poetby thomas dilworthcounterpoint, 432 pages, $39.50 The Sleeping Lord and Other Fragmentsby david jonesfaber & faber, 112 pages, £15.99 Epoch and Artistby david jonesfaber & faber, 320 pages, £17.99 The Dying Gaul and Other Writingsby david jonesfaber & . . . . Continue Reading »

The Crown

The Prince, the Beloved,Upon whom God’s favor rests,Scourged to the point of death,Can we truly call Him blessed? Bloodied, beaten, battered,Spat upon, punched and bullied,Bearing it passively,His pride was never sullied? Collapsed in a corner,There wearing His new made crown,The thorns they tore . . . . Continue Reading »

Newlyweds

In India the housewives kill themselves:a crop of twenty thousand every year.Some eat narcotics off their medicine shelves;some hang themselves. Some, long past feeling fear,self-immolate. Many are children still,whose nightmares have become their daily life.They hope to wake; they dream that if . . . . Continue Reading »

To a Decorative Dwarf in the Garbage

Perhaps you’ll find a home in some back yardBeneath a poplar, or beside an ash;How could those soft suburban hearts grow hardAnd leave you stranded in the morning trash? Perhaps someone will pick you up and seeThose qualities your owners didn’t notice:Your hunchbacked stoop, your gnarled and . . . . Continue Reading »

McAuley Beyond Despair

James McAuley had a gift for overcoming first impressions. Manning Clark, the future ­doyen of Australian historians, met the twenty-five-year-old poet in the crowd at an Aussie Rules game. McAuley was blind drunk, full of wild slogans about art and politics, and looked wrecked even by the usual . . . . Continue Reading »

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