Sing, O Muse, of the man of many reverses,the man with a mind of many winding ways,turned around and turned away from homethere on the open labyrinthine sea,of the man of many dodges, the windspunweathervane of a wanderer, navigatorforever divagating, of the man with a mindingeniously devious, the . . . . Continue Reading »
Life wreathes flowers for death to wear. Dante Gabriel Rossetti (1828–1882), who said as much, is dead and gone, his sonnets deader still, if we may judge by classroom syllabi and the infrequency with which his name appears in the leading periodicals. He still crops up half a dozen times a decade . . . . Continue Reading »
For pleasure, Fortune, a designer, weaves.We are her stuff—yarn, thread, and loom, ideal.Her tapestry seems flawless; she conceivesit cunningly, attended by her wheel, whose mechanism works, apparently.But might there be a wheel of Providencethat goes around, beyond contingency? It waits . . . . Continue Reading »
He is a churchyard. In his grasses, crossesHave blossomed once again, like quartered rosesThat know the real crowns are made of thorns.Redolent cedar, these, both kings and thronesIn one, and no, they aren’t marking graves.Here is no fear and trembling. No one grieves.No sickness unto death, no . . . . Continue Reading »
Where I live drought desecrates,Heat scorches fields, crops wither,Wasted while elsewhere floodsDevour bridges to rip asunderFriend and family. Things fallApart. The parched earth cracks,The chasms widen to swallowWhole our fractured world. Here, before us, the abyss,Yet, if you can, imagine . . . . Continue Reading »
It’s Sarah’s old-bone incredulitywrecked by the coos of borne-out prophecy. It’s Jacob learning that his son’s not dead,the brothers scrubbed of blood they long thought shed. It’s Miriam’s, Deborah’s, Hannah’s canticles,delivered from the haughty’s manacles. It’s David writhing, . . . . Continue Reading »