Sonnets

for the

Hours

By

George A. Blair

Copyright © 2001

By

George A. Blair

Preface

These actually are sonnets for the hours. What happened was that when I decided to recite the breviary after retirement, I got disgusted with the jargon that the psalms, readings, and prayers were translated into, and I edited them into an English that people actually speak, so that I could read the hours without being distracted by the annoyance of how I was being forced to listen to the Master.

But the hymns at the beginning of each hour were a distinct problem. They were not, of course, divinely inspired, and so I had no problem on that score with changing them drastically or even substituting something else. And hymns in general receive a good deal of their aesthetic meaning from the music, with the words a secondary reinforcement; it is very, very rare for the words to rise to the level of poetry in their own right. But I had no intention of bursting into song as I began each hour. True, St. Benedict (I think it was) said, "He who sings prays twice," but my take on that is "He who sings well prays twice; he who sings badly blasphemes."

So I had to find an alternative that was some kind of poetry which would remind me of things I had to keep being reminded of. Finding none (or nowhere near enough), I decided I would write my own; and since my mind operates in a mode that lends itself to the sonnet form, they came out as sonnets, connected (sometimes very loosely) with the spirit of the hour and the day of the week.

Here they are, then, if you want to use them, such as they are, for your own benefit.

Sunday Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday

First Vespers

I have no fear of death as just an end;
My life has not been something to prolong.
For every moment when I feel a song
Spring to my throat, six more contend
With it for wails and tears. Why should I spend
More time at this? But still, if I am wrong,
And worse awaits perhaps, then come a throng
Of dreads against which I cannot defend.

If only I could know! Why does he keep
Us in suspense like this? He told us, true,
But that was centuries ago. Can we
Be certain when there's nothing we can see?
But isn't that the point? That's faith. The clue
Is trust; you'll wake in joy from this brief sleep.

Compline

The world is still in Saturday--but not
The Sabbath rest, that awful Saturday
Without the Master, who had gone away
(Though promising a swift return)--which caught
His friends off guard and caused their hopes to rot
Before they even ripened. We too stay
Huddled in the darkened room and pray
That something may be true in what he taught.

Because we don't believe, not really. We
Hope we believe, believe at least we hope
That after all, we could be right; he might
Have risen after that horrendous night.
But we must trust his love, and try to grope
Our way. Be patient. One day, we will see.

Matins

We once again begin existing, now
That night has died, and death's reflection, sleep.
I was not, yet I was. How could I keep
My self if self did not know self? And how
Could that cicada's carapace endow
Itself with thought once more? The leap
To consciousness for body means to reap
What was not sown--and here my mind must bow.

Then is it so impossible that he
Restored himself from slaughter, and re-clothed
Himself in flesh--immortal, sealed?
He who designed the universe revealed
By simple sleep his gift to his betrothed:
That death is dead. His death has set us free.

Lauds

Reversing sunset, now the dawn reveals
The truth about the sun, that it returns
In promised peace and beauty; that it burns
Away night's fog and gloom; its brilliance heals
Our baseless fears; its climb brings hope, and seals
Our confidence that goals ambition yearns
To reach can come with effort. Faith discerns
The Resurrection hinted at, and kneels.

We say "the sun returns," but when we see
It rise, we know it did not come again.
It shone all night, but earth had turned its back
And then came round once more. So when we lack
And later welcome back our Savior, then
It is not God who turns again, but we.

Terce

Warmth, and youth, and vigor, strength, and joy
Climb through the early struggles of the day;
As yet unwearied, thinking we know the way,
We face the future, hopeful as a boy
That effort wins; there's nothing to alloy
Our golden confidence in self as yet. We say
"Of course I can," and do, and find a way,
We think, to make the universe our toy.

Yes, so we think; But still we know the sun
Climbs up the heavens only to decline.
Our noon will come and evening follow all
Too quickly; and will then our spirits fall
Into dejection? Not if we resign
Our hopes and dreams to him who losing won.

Sext

The shadows cringe and hide beneath the light
That blazes in its fullest glory. Noon
Means respite from our labors, since the boon
Of radiance brings with it heat, whose might
Is enervating, and we feel it right
To pause and contemplate--to read the rune
Of nature, and to try to hear the tune
God sings in his creation: All is right.

The tide of day is at its flood, while we
Sit quiet, feeling guilt when so much work
Still beckons to be done. But we are wrong;
He does the work; we simply go along
And tinker; and when we pause, we do not shirk
Our duty, since our task here is to see.

None

Fatigue sets in. It is too much; we plod
Our way through heat and cold, and all for what?
We do because we do, it seems; the rut
Grows deeper, and the plow won't break the sod;
The seed is sterile, the harvest just a clod
Of thirsty earth that knows no water but
Our sweat, its salt destroying life. We cut
Our losses, lifting hopeless hands to God.

Why have we been abandoned? Where is he?
It is his work; then why are we alone?
Why not admit our failure? Why go on?
Because to fail succeeds. We have but gone
The cross-road, that is all; we must atone
Our sins with him before we can be free.

Second Vespers

The day expires in orange light, which makes
The sky green. Peace descends. Why should its throes
Screamed by the clouds in yellow, mauve, and rose
So still our souls? It is the silence. Flakes
From heaven's agony bring rest that slakes
Our own day's thirst. So failing autumn shows
Its gasp of golden peace, as if it knows
The efflorescent spring that later wakes.

And that is why their dying soothes. God speaks
Through nature, and we see night herald day
And winter spring--and so will aging's end
be all? Or does our autumn eve portend
The morning spring? Of course. It is his way
To tell the heart it will have what it seeks.

Compline

The day, born but a breath ago, is now
About to sigh its last; and looking back,
Sees only folly. Everything is black:
The morning's dreams and sweat from noontime's brow
Have burnt to charcoal ash. I wonder how
I ever called a "talent" this great lack
Of anything more than mediocre knack--
And night no longer lets me guide the plow.

Now think, for once; you cannot find the way
By looking back or to the dark ahead;
No, look beyond, to Me. You are redeemed;
I threw my life away for yours; what seemed
My waste is your success. What do you dread?
My rising has transformed your future day.

Back

Again my life begins, although it had
Not ceased; the past is dead, but still it's there;
My waking births a thousand births; my hair
Is gray with them; yet I am still the lad
I am no more; and every day I add
Onto this self I drag through time. I wear
My years like clothes--except I cannot tear
Them off; the eyesore of it drives me mad.

How to escape this self-made wreck? I fear
There is no hope; it is beyond my strength.
But there's a different birth outside of time
Where Presence swallows past; and in sublime
Totality my soul will learn at length
That He knows how to wipe off every tear.

Lauds

Again we see arise the Lamp of God
Who takes away the darkness of the world.
He visits all the things that have been curled
In quiet sleep, and with a gentle prod
Of light revives them. Rising from the sod,
They start their work of praise to him; now hurled
Into survival's battleground, or whirled
About in play beneath his holy rod.

He moves us, true; and yet we move ourselves.
Directed directors; but can this be so?
Aren't we just puppets, hanging on his whim,
With all our psyches simply asking him
What we must do? Sin gives the answer "No";
So faith unearths that for which reason delves.

Terce

At times, the face of life is smiling, clean,
Transfigured from the customary round
Of boring toil distracted by the sound
Of rain and hail from leaden skies: the lean
And hungry look of heaven. Now the sheen
Of blue above, the crisp spring air, the mound
Of sand from busy ants, the baying hound
Off in the distance, is what life should mean--

We think. But just as once on Tabor, they
Were lost in ecstasy, and then came down
To hear about the cross, we need the strength
Of sapphire moments, or the plodding length
And sometimes agony of life will drown
Our souls before we reach eternal day.

Sext

Why such a stilted verse-form? Don't ask me.
I'm no Walt Whitman; my ideas arise
Out of the limits of the rhymes. The size
And shape of what I do just seems to be
What's there in these seeds' possibility.
I'm just the dirt; they grow before my eyes;
And what I see sometimes, to my surprise,
Is that the limits are what sets them free.

But isn't that the way with all we seek?
To ride in all directions is absurd.
With too much freedom, we become all thumbs,
And nothing good gets done--and when it comes
To that, why even God's almighty Word
Himself became a sonnet, so to speak.

None

Four hundred ninety must have passed long, long
Ago, and still I beg forgiveness for the same
Sad, dreary, sordid sins. It's not a game,
I swear. I'm really sorry. I'm not strong,
That's all it is; whenever I do wrong
I hate myself--still more when I'm to blame
For what I gave up yesterday. I came
Into a world in which I don't belong.

My child I know. How can you ask me why
I love you if in fact there's nothing there
To love? I love because I love; I make
You lovable by loving you; I take
No umbrage at your sins; I just don't care.
I don't ask for success, but that you try.

Vespers

How can I pray? I don't know you exist
Half of the time. I pray to empty space
And have no words, and sometimes not a trace
Of thought, except distractions. Then I try to twist
My mind to--what? Yet something does insist
That it's all right; this blank is not a waste
Of time, and it's not wrong to have me placed
Just here, without strength even to resist.

Come now; what is it you expect of me?
I don't speak words; I spoke a Word, who said
All that there ever was to say. A friend
Who really loves brings language to an end.
Don't be afraid that our embrace is dead;
"Just here" is where you are supposed to be.

Compline

You say that one day I will lose this shell
And not be brown, but soft and tall and green.
You say I yearn for what no seed has seen.
How can I yearn that all I know so well
Will die, rot in the ground? No, no, don't tell
Me tales, that what it is to be a bean
Has roots and leaves and fruit; you cannot mean
I'm not myself. Such stories do not sell.

And yet I feel it. Does the butterfly
Recall the caterpillar's ache, and say,
"It was worth while. How ignorant I was!"?
Will I look back, as wisdom always does
At fears unfounded, thinking of this day,
And ponder, "Yes, that once was I."?

Back

Matins

I woke just now, a tear still in my eye
From some forgotten dream of fear and pain.
The matter vanished--but it left a stain
Of dread so great it swallows up the sky
In absolute despair. "No! Stop!" I cry.
"It's just a dream! A Dream!" And to stay sane
I put aside my thoughts, but they remain
In spite of me, and give my mind the lie.

Because it seems as if I'd been in hell
And clawed my way back. But is it my fate
To live what I was then? If up to me,
Perhaps. But it is not. Because, you see,
He guides my life, and I must trust and wait.
All will be well; all manner of thing, well.
<

Lauds

"Begin again!" The call comes from the sky
When light returns, as if another day
Will not see one more failure. "Find a way
To climb back to the road; another try
At seeking Archimedes' footing high
Above to move the world." What can I say
To folly vast as this? How can it pay
To sweat and swink for nothing till I die?

Do you suppose he asked this at his fall
When soldiers whipped him to his feet again?
What did it profit him to toss his life
Aside like that? His journey is the knife
That cuts the fat that makes us think like men;
His failure saved us humans; that is all.
<

Terce

How strange that every day I feel so young
When all these years have passed; the morning makes
A mockery of yesterday, and takes
Its cue from now, from power. One more rung
I surely still can scale; I will give tongue
To one more rhyme; my eager body slakes
Its thirst on hope; some day the breaks
Will fall my way; the song will yet be sung.

Not here, perhaps; and where, I could not say,
Or when. But that my dreams will somehow come
To pass I have been told, and must believe.
I need not fret; his love could never leave
My soul in hell or let my voice grow dumb
When time collapses in eternal day.

Sext

No longer young, but not yet old and weak,
The day confronts the problems of the hour
With poise, convinced that no reverse can sour
The taste of noon upon the tongue, or speak
A cloudy word to shadow the mystique
Of joy that comes from consciousness of power
To do it all. Now life is at full-flower
With muscles bulging, flesh that's firm and sleek.

Well yes; but evening comes, we know, too soon,
And with it sickness, weakness, and the rest,
Whose prospect frightens, even when we seem
So certain of ourselves. But still the gleam
Of hope in him beyond this gives life zest,
Since after all, eternity is noon.

None

How can a desert be without the sun?
Nothing grows here; nothing penetrates
The cracking earth, whose wind-blown fine grit grates
Against my peeling skin; and I can't run
For shelter on these scorching feet. No one
Can long endure this; and yet heaven waits
Beyond the vast horizon somewhere--states
The legend. It's no use; I am undone.

True, the sun is nothing you can see
In this bleak land; and yet your skin is red,
From what? It's there. You chose to give him all,
And so he took. Are you surprised? You call
Yourself a student of the one who said,
"O Father, why have you abandoned me?"

Vespers

My Master, please! This collar is too tight.
And do unclip that leash; I'm now too old
To run away. Besides, I do what I am told--
Most of the time, at least. Then too, my sight
Is hardly of the best. Where would I go? It might
Be easier on you to let your hold
Relax a bit; your hands are getting cold,
And there's nobody here for me to bite.

I might let go if you'd protested less.
But clearly, you would like just one last fling
Before you sleep. You think I'll call you back
And stop your romp before you go to rack
And ruin and abandon everything.
That's not my way. I curb all those I bless.

Compline

Do grubs inside their chrysalis feel fear
That they are lost forever? That their throes
Are those of death? Those ghastly growths that rose
Upon their backs a shroud? That what is near
Is nothingness? Or do they think this queer
Condition just a phase, and so each knows
No coffined terror, and proceeds to doze
Its metamorphosis away with cheer?

And in our case, we either fuss at how
To hold life's drop of mercury intact
Or live the moment, unconcerned with what
The moment means. We see our souls, but shut
Our eyes to destiny's tremendous fact:
That heaven's kingdom works within us now.

Back

Matins

Whose is that face that looks back from the glass?
Do I know him? It seems we never met,
But still, he was there yesterday; I get
Confused and wonder, "Who am I?" I pass
Through life as other people--blades of grass
That populate a field. Still, friends don't fret
At who I am; they know me well--and yet,
Who do they know? Which member of this class?

Not one. You haven't been yourself since you
Were born in spirit and in water. He
Is you now; you are He; and what that means
You'll learn among all those familiar scenes
That follow death. For now, it's faith must see
That that's the self to which you must be true.

Lauds

He said he would wipe every tear away.
But how can he undo what has been done?
The dawn undoes the night, true; still, the sun
Replaces, not erases, dark. Its sway
Still haunts us from the past, and though it's day,
The night's right there, still part of us. What one
Of us would not give everything to run
From harm we've done to others? That will stay!

The act will stay; the harm will not. You see,
Redemption does not mean erasure, but
A transformation. Think of when he rose;
His wounds were glowing jewels, which he chose
To show us how he tears a tear, and what
Our feeble evil will turn out to be.

Terce

Why bother with this nonsense? Live the day!
It's here and now; and even if it's true
That acts resound beyond the grave, why stew
And fret about it? You'll have time to pray
And beg for mercy when you're old; and he will say,
"My child, my friend, come in; you see, I knew
How weak you were, and I still cherish you."
In love for you, he'll fling his wrath away.

Oh yes? It sounds good, just as sin feels fine
While it proceeds to smash our lives. The act
Is not condemned because he hates it, but
Because he sees what's there, and he knows what
We know ourselves, though we deny the fact.
So get behind! This branch stays on the vine.

Sext

I see why it's a blessing to be poor.
It's all too easy when you have enough
To store it all in granaries, and slough
Off thoughts beyond the grave, assure
Yourself there will be time, and feel secure
That matter matters--knowing that this stuff
Is really nothing but a bit of fluff
That blows away, but blinded by its lure.

It's not the wealth, though, that is evil, but
The loss of focus; it can still be used
To garner friends, and open an account
In heaven's bank, where money will amount
To something that will never be refused.
The problem is to stay out of the rut.

None

And still the day is with us, though the light
Grows dimmer now, and muscles lose their tone.
How long is left? If that could just be known
The terror from impending darkness might
Abate somewhat. We could prolong the fight
To finish some of what had been our own
Ambitious projects. We have not yet shown
What we can do; and now we face the night.

Relax. This shortened time that makes you curse
Your impotence is given for your good.
You have and had no power--none at all
To move the world yourself. See that you call
Upon the one who always helped you, as you should;
Rely on Him; He runs the universe.

Vespers

How is it, Master, right can feel so wrong?
There's that temptation back a month ago
That I resisted; and, although I know
I did the right thing, I'm a wreck. I long
Still, after all this time, to sing the song
I stifled then. Where is the triumph? So
I won. Convince the corpse down there, and show
Him how he's better off that he was strong.

I asked that very question on the cross,
You know; I am like you in everything.
But this defeat is not a gain for you
So much as joining me, as you once asked me to,
In pulling out from others evil's sting.
And afterwards you'll see it wasn't loss.

Compline

Why does our Master take our light away?
Just nature's law, you say. But why the law?
We need the dark to sleep. You never saw
An animal that sleeps throughout the day
And roams at night? There must have been some way
To make a universe without this flaw
Of dark that swallows vision down its craw
And hobbles action with its black delay.

But think: Without the dark when could we see
The stars and moon, and learn the vastness of
This universe? And is it not the same
With all life's darknesses, like pain? Why blame
Our Lord for this? He chose pain in his love
To show its place in what will set us free.

Back

What is the point of dreams, these crazy tales
We live through, even though (when once awake
Again) we know they're lies? Why should we slake
Our thirst at non-existent streams? What grails
Are those we chase with nothing in our sails
But phantom wind? I know; it's for the sake
Of clearing out our brains. But should this take
A pattern so grotesque that reason quails?

Well, but there's more than this. When dreams arise
And in them we are fooled into the thought
That they are real, and then awake and see
The different world around us, we can be
Accepting of the next life, as we ought.
We need reminding where our true life lies.

Lauds

The day, my Lady, dawn came on the earth,
You had to choose to bring the world its light.
What were you thinking, at that awesome sight
That greeted you and told you of the birth
You knew God closed to you? Yet from your dearth
Of understanding, you chose what was right,
And kept the world from everlasting night.
By choosing to submit you proved your worth.

You teach us that we need not know; that we
Are always ignorant, and make our choice
In blindness of the consequence. Then how
Can we discover what we should do now?
Submit, in hope that later we'll rejoice.
It is the unknown truth that sets us free.

Terce

I think I understand why Israel
Could turn aside and build the golden calf
In spite of all they'd seen in Egypt--half
Of which some sorcerer of Egypt's spell
Could duplicate. I would have thought as well
It must have been a trick; how could a staff
Become a snake? And why? It is to laugh.
And here we are trapped in this desert hell!

We don't believe our eyes because it's all
Too good to be what happens in this world.
If he loves us so much, why all this pain?
It is because we turn our backs, and feign
To rule our lives ourselves, with flags unfurled.
We close our ears, and so can't hear his call.

Sext

I'm sorry, but it's hard to thank you when
It seems my face gets slapped the whole day through.
I know if I looked deep, I'd see that you
Had blessed my life more than most other men
With health, enough to eat, and leisure; then
Why do I fret? Because I try to do
Your work, and every day I get a new
Rebuff; I start once more--and fail again.

I understand, so do not waste your breath
Apologizing; just do not forget
That you once asked me to create a saint
Of that dung that you are. Well, do not faint
When I fulfill your wishes, and just let
Me work. With you, success comes after death.

None

I know; I make too much of all my "pain."
I melodramatize these tiny sores
I feel inside whenever I find doors
I wanted to go through slam shut. And rain
Falls now and then. Well, gee! It's not the bane
Of all existence, is it? Not when scores
Of people almost cannot breathe, with pores
All clogged with pus. And I dare to complain?

But that's not all there is to it, you see.
Your pain is really longing. I know you.
I call it "hope," the fact you're not at home
And always restless under heaven's dome.
This pain is what you feel when you are true;
It is your sign you still belong to me.

Vespers

Please, Master, when can I go home? What more
Could you still have for me to do? I know,
I asked to finish one task still to go
Before I leave. Is that the only chore
That keeps me here? Or do I have in store
Some other work to fail at, some new woe,
Some new frustration I must undergo
Before I set off for the other shore?

Now, now, my child, I do not make you wait
To torture you, and nail you to my cross
As if that were a virtue. No, what I
Am doing will ensure that when you die
You'll do enough to not say, to your loss,
"I should have thought of that! And it's too late!"

Compline

It seems like such an evil time, this night
Of dread and unseen menace, even when
We know the day has all but come again.
And so we wait and quake, and strain our sight
At thicker shades, and curse the lack of light
That turned our broad-backed earth into a fen
Of quicksand, making us, instead of men,
Gibbering cowards, robbed of all our fight.

And so you think your eyes are what you use
To give you strength? You have no strength, you fool.
Your present blindness lets you see the facts
About your life and God; it's he who acts
By wrapping you in sightless peace. Be cool;
If he is here what do you have to lose?

Back

If only you would tell us what you want,
There might be hope that we could do your will.
It's true, you've spelled out your displeasure; still
What of those crossroads where the prospects taunt
Us with two goods, which even a savant
Would hesitate to choose between, until
He'd seen the outcome? Should I climb that hill,
Or stay down in this valley? It would daunt

St. Benedict to fathom what to do--
But you are silent. What do you want done?
My little fool; I have no preference.
I made you free, and if you've any sense,
You'll know that I want you to choose; the one
Who fashions my eternal plan is you.

Lauds

What was it that you did, St. Joseph, that
Was so remarkable? There's not a trace
Of furniture you made; and let us face
The fact, the child you reared was not a brat
To balk at orders--though to his fiat
The universe began to be. What place
Could you expect with heroes, then, who grace
Our calendar? Your life was pretty flat.

Yet there you are, next only to your wife,
On whose decision everything depends.
But isn't that the point? The deeds don't count;
It's purity of heart that will amount
To something in God's world, and win us friends.
We need not fear obscurity of life.

Terce

But I don't want to go back to the fold!
You think I'm just like every other sheep?
Now put me down! I know the cliffs are steep,
But I can scale them. I won't be controlled
And only do whatever I am told.
I need to be myself, so I can leap
And frolic and explore my world. Just keep
My place for me; I'll come back when I'm old.

You think you'll be old, going on like this?
Relax. There are such things as wolves, you know.
Besides, my shoulders and the pen are not
Forever; they're to help you learn just what
You can and cannot do, until you grow.
I'll set you free when you arrive in bliss.

Sext

You say, "I leave you peace." Where is your peace?
The torment that I suffer every day--
Each minute!--how I fight in every way
To break free of this "easy yoke"? That's peace?
The pain I cause to all my friends? What peace?
There's nothing there to speak to when I pray,
It seems; I fail in all I do or say.
And don't tell me this turmoil is the peace!

Well, isn't it? You see, I don't give peace
The way the world gives peace--because its peace
Is merely rest. My peace is active peace;
It is the peace of hope, of faith; the peace
Of being loved--that peace. You ask for peace;
You are at peace: true peace, real peace--my peace.

None

Three hours! When just one single moment would
Have saved us all. One drop of blood, if blood
Was even needed. But then why this flood
Of agony extended, when he could
Have spared himself? What earthly good
Could come from slipping through the mud
Of degradation, bearing with the thud
Of kicks and nails, the hatred? Should

He not have overwhelming reason? Yes.
It is that else we can't believe that God
So lavishly forgives; and in our sins
Repeated all too often, Satan wins
Our souls to think that finally his rod
Is raised to damn us, when it's still to bless.

Vespers

How long must this go on? My work, for what
It's worth, was over years ago, and though
I try and try, no one will ever know
What I have done, it seems. The doors clang shut
At every knock. True, I continue, but
Without real hope. And yet, it's his work, so
Where is his help? I cannot make it grow
Myself, stuck here in this eternal rut.

Eternal? No. You do not understand.
Consider what he did on that last day:
He could not carry it himself, and still
He fell. Three times! He tells you, if you will
Come after him, it must be done his way;
Success must wait until the Promised Land.

Compline

How is it I keep fighting you this way?
It's not against myself that I wage war;
It's you; my being, right down to the core
Can't stand this hand upon me every day,
That prods and blocks--and guides, as you would say.
And even though you're right, I still abhor
Not doing what I'd like forevermore
Without a chance to ever go astray.

You also can't obey what you can't see,
You tell yourself--and yet you do. But why?
Is it just fear? Or can it be you care,
And long to reach the life that we will share
When we have stopped this war? Relax, and try
To have some trust, beloved enemy.

Back

Be honest now; do you believe all this?
To be quite frank, I've heard the arguments
And know this much: that nothing else makes sense
Of everything. But then, I'd be remiss
To say that settles it, since voices hiss,
"Look at your life, you fool, and don't be dense;
To say it's rational is an offense!
You really feel you're on the road to bliss?"

Well, yes, I do--I think. It all depends
On what went on in that great Sabbath pause.
If on that night, the tombstone rolled away
From nothing but a useless shroud that lay
Upon the floor, then it's all right--because
In spite of everything, he called us friends.

Lauds

They claim I never listen to advice.
"Put it like this." --And then I smile, and say,
"You may be right, but I'll just go my way."
It isn't that I think that they're not nice
To criticize; it's just that it's the price
For listening to another voice that may
Be speaking softly. At least that's what I pray
It is; I hope it's not some kind of vice.

You have to hear the matter to create,
That's what speaks soft. You've got your purpose, but
You have to do what it wants: lead it on
To be itself, and let its own light dawn--
And then it's what it is, no matter what
They'd like. You must submit to dominate.

Terce

I must be careful not to try to fail
And think that I have taken up his cross
By sabotaging what I do. The loss
Is not the value; it's of no avail
Without the effort to succeed. The grail
We look for has to have the sheen and gloss
Of deeds good in the doing, with the dross
Of outcomes burnt away like so much scale.

No, you don't see what this is all about.
Results are good, and not to be divorced
From acts. It's just that for results to be
Significant, they need eternity.
And sometimes that means failure here. They forced
The cross on me; I didn't seek it out.

Sext

The trouble with success is that it ends.
And then what? There's the perfect job you did--
There in the past. It's gone. It gleamed and slid
Into oblivion. Its termination sends
The message that time never stops or bends
Back on itself to live again. It's rid
Of that. Success is failure. So long, kid;
You can't retrieve the gold your glory spends.

But if success is failure, failure is
Success in this perverted world. You see,
The failure's effort throws itself beyond
The grave, where it is treasured by a fond
Redeemer, who transforms it mightily.
You want the same success that once was his.

None

It doesn't look as if we have much time;
This has to be creation's afternoon.
Our "progress" shatters sanity, and soon
Will push the world right back into the slime
It once emerged from. Look at all the grime
Upon our souls, how filth and muck is strewn
Onto our every thought; how good is hewn
Away and left to die. It's such a crime!

I wouldn't be too sure, if I were you.
In every age, the evil is appalling.
But that's not what I'm waiting for. You see,
The evil doesn't matter much to me.
There always is a remnant that I'm calling;
The good must be complete before I'm through.
Back