Poets’ Corner
The Collar
pulls my poverty in among the poor, tugs my stiff-necked affluence toward Jesus understudies, breathing icons I’m priest-inclined to pass on the street.
After Belatedly Watching the Ken Burns Vietnam War Documentary
Behold, I make all things new. —Revelation 21:5 Already past the middle of July, The summer I left for college, said goodbye— For weeks, not months or years, eternity— To the girl I loved, still love, I’ll always love; All summer, Vietnam, the nightly news, Men…
Two Poems from the French of Paul Claudel
The Resurrection This silence of all the centuries before me: there was no way, it had to be given up. No way to say anymore of interrogated Earth: she shut herself up. The stars set themselves to tell what they’ve seen, …
Death is swallowed up in victory
Anagram of 1 Corinthians 15:54, NKJV run! the Physician has made death burn, wove saints a garment tightly—tools to withstand rot, unspools limp sin-torn city, all without prior wrath, but establishes rich hope upon it
December, Henry County
The dead grass stands where it withered. The corn stubble, a muted choir its praises more remembered than sung in this landscape devoid even of the solace of snow. The sun muted behind the gauzy sky makes no shadows. No one here believes in spring. Summer is a myth, a story of the man and…
Sunscreen
That day we went to Southport without a thought of Time, or Love, or God, or even sunscreen — when it was late July, and we were nineteen, when beer and cigarettes were all we brought, when swimming naked meant the glimpses caught were also offered, when no desire was unclean, when death was in…
Relics
The saint in her stasis reclined there, Preparing to rise, her handlers made clear, On what bailiffs call the Last Great Day When they swear in the witnesses at court. Wouldn’t it be fine to see it happen In the rainy doldrums of a Thursday, The skies finally parting, not for the sun, But the…
CHURCHYARDS
1. I never can see a churchyard old, With its mossy stones and mounds, And green-trees weeping the unforgot That rest in its hallowed bounds ; I never can see the old churchyard, But I breathe to God a prayer, That, sleep as I may in this fevered life, I may rest when I slumber…
The Garden of Eros is a Watching Place
Variations on a line by Sorina Higgins The Garden of Eden is a waiting room. The waiting of the painted is a still palace. The watching of the pained is an error. The panting of the weaned is a gratitude. The parching of the great is a watershed. The parting of the water is…
Sparks
Sparks flying over beaten metal In the gloom of a smithy; Drops of dew upon a petal In the grandeur of a city; Strike a bell and there is music In the late-spring streets, But there is a sound of pity When the blacksmith beats; The sighs of the lovesick, The sparkling of artificial stars,…