Sonnet: Kanaka

How Black, the hottest fires of Hell must burn;
So Hot, this Blackened Hell, must be its fires.
The spit on which impurity doth turn,
Would sear the flesh impurity requires.
Beyond repentance, punishment doth earn;
Yet ever, to impurity aspires.

So Hot the Sweetest Love, do we deny;
How Sweet, this Burning Love of ours, its taste,
Impurity were beckoned in thereby
To desecrate this altar we disgraced;
And cast away its sanctity, defy
This gift, as Heaven, each to us, hath graced.

How Sweet the Sin, which Strongly us befell
How Strong the Death which Blackened us… to Hell.

Permalink

Advertisements

Sonnet XI: The Art of War

How strangely opposite our sameness then,
My friend; although I know thy form–as hard
As mine–not pliant, nor as soft, we men;
Nor sweet, as  fond our distaff we regard.

With toil, these untendered limbs are scarred,
That reach for thee, though laughingly, with force
To equal thine, as though we will have sparred–
Yet battle merely reticent remorse.

And, having long since made our peace, the source
Of this reserve has fuelled our desire;
And brought us far along our wicked course!
That we, forbidden wickedness, conspire.

And–battle, artistry, or sin–we choose
This contest both would win, or wish to lose.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink

Sonnet X: Labyrinth

His shape as pleaseth me, this fiery art
Doth longsome dream to me whilst gripped in sleep.
Shot through with lightning’s fire, doth dream impart
Such thrill: convivial to wake, to weep,

To think it trivial that thence I’ve gone,
That this Oneiran path: forever lost;
Not Morpheus, nor Hypnos’ other Spawn
Reveals’ this darkened place to whence I crost;

For these three Sons shall ‘ever show
A mortal man each labyrinth but once.
So at my waking hour, must I go
Away within imaginings, unless some bunce

Befall me; kindly providence might choose
To call me with such luck as I may use.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink

Sonnet IX: Eros Philia Agape

As perfect thee, thine image as thine art:
Sublime, as sculpture’s ideations see;
Though mere in thought do such ideals exist,
My hands believe perfection thus to be.

Do not I trust this truth my hands impart
When next they touch conviction wrought of fire:
This certitude of which mine eyes insist
When they confirm withal my hands acquire;

Wherefore our brothers, hath He given heart
That for the other, petuous, will burn;
For she, from whom our brothers’ ribs consist,
Do all of us, this undespoilt, yearn.

For one: with art, we praise His strength thereof;
The other: doth enlist with us His love.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink

Intro 9: In Truth

Do not thou name me;
For, by this very naming,
Shalt thou name thyself.

Do not thou brand me;
For, by this vile branding,
Art thou, so branded.

Permalink

Sonnet VIII: His Hand

Look ye upon this hand and then suppose
Ye know its master’s strength; as must it be
perceived, its width and length are plain to see,
conceived for war or mercy as he chose.

From grace to passion, powerful it flows’
To keep ye captive; both extremes agree;
Enrapt, gave ye desire with strength to free
Such still and racing hearts as passion knows.’

To bate thy breath, its mastery displayed,
To touch thee known, or thee beyond compare,
And bind thy strength, or thee thy beauty there;
Command in both, this hand shall be obeyed:
Such frailty and such power thus are swayed;
Perfection to ensnare,  succumb, prepare!

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

Permalink