© 2016 William Frank | Tuckford Bunny Press | Selden, NY |
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and silence, each sonnet its own religious reliquary.
below to give you a small idea of the music and the scope.
I have come to love with right and love's contention.
I am selfish. I have hurt others. I am vile.
I have changed Good Foresight for mauling satisfaction.
I have finished in the beauty of my wiles.
Respite is nothing but a frost, over expectation.
I am refected by what is proximal and acute.
Let the fire enter with a little light, let the iron
be an invitation to a brute.
If I am silent to less account and I do nothing
I become part of a hundred, good by them
without time or sadness but as fog and sheen.
If severe, I confess my ignorance vaunting,
I become none of a hundred, like passion, like contempt.
I mend what vary, heel the small and burn away exceed.
I have turned both my Faith and wisdom out.
(My Lord, as one of many, I am nothing.)
In the vivid hollow is the glistered brown
viperies of absence pleasure brings.
I gave the whole world, all of it, to you.
I cursed Myself with your voice; I diminished before your lightning.
Nothing remains but the pittances. Like you,
I burn through to no end even a shapeless thing.
Tell me you know because your poverty understands
how a thread is fast and the world is intricate
how to break and cherish in the same proud flash
how the cities of your impulse cannot stay your hand,
when what is found in the stable come the pestilential visit
turns over the quiet personhood of wrath.
If I thought your slavery could stay My Heart and serve
I would stand on your neck; I see your joy, I know what you adore.
To hear Me is tyranny, but you run to your captors.
I am only as strong as the cautions of My hurt.
My small, swirled dust, what kind of God am I?
There was a summer that, like a child, I had come
with all the stars their water down to Sodom
and gave them flowers and broke no dying.
Yet you for all your consequence can sell your crown
for a love you want now, far beyond what now can give,
and burn its violent kingdom to the ground
with no message to the forward towns
who I will have to hear in prayer forlorn and impassive
and lay in My grave the hollow and the sound.
The postilion and his tigers disappear to a tone.
The Hail, that takes no pair, turns over His cup.
The city tread brings me back to still roll up
the Last Night wandeldekoration.
I will never have an honest foundation
connected to the value that life is
instead crumbing together the shock of depravities.
To cherish is a moral ambition.
Sometimes broke from dreaming, my imagination dead,
the Romance tale embarks to a far, forbidding place
where there’s no illumination and no one keeps the peace
the wonders tramp away, a bedlam populace,
it is there to the Herald of the Van of Little Beasts
my heart lays down and virtue bring my head.
How’s it going, really? Are we muddling through?
Is this all we can expect or would you care to feel?
Quite honestly, the last time we met, I thought we had a deal.
- I don’t need any advice from you.
You know, I once knew a man similarly self-enthralled
and I don’t think he was for blowing out his brains
but he never could quite get that the drip that remains
is just the living thing that we are after all
and while I’m sure you have it all figured out, yet again,
is this exactly the kind of evening for a man so free
a chair at the window watching the boats crown the Sea,
the curtain lightly blowing, the hours of reredemain?
And while you don’t need me, well, I can put you on that crest.
As for the trough,
that’s coming anyway, or won’t you get enough?
If You and I can both betray
to each do acts that contradict
with worst qualities assay
what justifies or acquits,
the resignation counterweigh
our hearts that are so passionate,
by which we live and we pay,
on which we founder and submit
then hear me what I want to say
whatever love You want to know
whatever outcome cuts me quick
I believe in You because the way
the sun came through my bedroom window
when I was happy or I was sick.
Midwest Book Review
thinking about, recommended." ~ Carl Logan
$13.00, 66 pages