I expected five. But for some unknown reason, four came before three, shortly after two. And that told the whole story. As well as five could. Reading them over, I sometimes see a fifth there, and sometimes I don’t.
Tag Archives: Ugly
Sonnet III: Scions
More tragic still are They Who, yet unborn,
May never be; or Who, once born were not
To ever see what prize Their Birthright bought.
Olympian, Their Blood aflame; yet mourn
They not, for know They not, how They were torn
From out Their Mothers’ Arms while still She fought,
Believing They, with Holy Blood, could naught
But thrive. They know Their Legacy as scorn;
Yet not why They, your legions, chafe to join.
‘Til you, upon Their Mothers’ Throne, decree
And point “This is a god; and this is not.”
Defining ugliness as beauty, point
And sneer “Art thou as beautiful as we?”
But fear to know the answer you have wrought.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 3: I Think I Now See:
How will evil fall?
Shall it be ground underneath
Purely distilled truth?
Truth and good and right
And beauty cannot be stopped.
Many will have died–
For this, gladly die.
For truth is all that we have.
Truth, and nothing else.
All beauty and right
All goodness and all kindness
Come from perfect truth.
Distilled by reason
Distilled by our harmony
With the truth itself.
Sonnet II: Exiles
More tragic are those Gods who still remain.
Olympus fell; yet cast about Them thrice,
You’ve wrapped Them up in filthy sheets of ice;
And jeer that none will recognize Their Reign.
Though hidden in plain sight, so great remain
These Paragons of Beauty; Their Devices–
Their Sublime Creations–could entice,
Enlighten, and inspire, if Their Domain
Were not so hidden, frozen, and unclear.
Yet through your filth, such Gods might still be seen;
Though locked beneath a century’s demean.
If one unbidden eye should chance to turn,
A mortal soul might taintless beauty learn;
And this is what you meretricious fear.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet: Creators
And who are these who rape my Gods when long
They have returned to ash, and dust, and bone?
No right have these to slash Them, cruelly thrown
And bleeding, from the Heights where They belong.
And who are these ignoble beasts; this throng,
Who mutilate and rape Them, unbeknown,
Then take their turn upon each vacant Throne,
While still They fall, unknowing, from this wrong?
Do these believe their acts are in the right;
As though belief could claim to sanction rape?
Do these take carnal pleasure in the night,
While horrified Their past devoted gape?
Or do these quake with fear, while knowing well,
Their lie alone will have them burn in Hell?
David Emeron: Sonnets 