Sonnet Cycle: Nanshoku ōkagami

I. The ABCs of Wakashudō

Asking whether it is painful,
you put your trusting hand in mine.

Something small like this?
Disdainful of pain,
I keep our pact divine.

We are wings that share a feather,
two trees grafted tight together;
thus,
we are always side by side,
a set that no one could divide.

All will worship us who hear us together,
playing on our flutes;
Atsumori himself salutes our skill.

Who can choose when near us between us?
Who would rid his rooms of autumn leaves or springtime blooms?

II. Within the Fence: Pine, Maple, and a Willow Waist

Truly,
life is like the lightning that strikes in daylight,
deft and fleet,
and I dare not face what's frightening:
the wait until next time we meet.

Violating all conventions,
you bestowed your kind attentions.
I'm lost in this confusing mood,
and I pour forth my gratitude.

All your acts amid my illness made me believe you were in love
(unworthy as I am thereof),
and if in the evening stillness,
you whisper that these things are true,
please let me give myself to you.

III. Love Letter Sent in a Sea Bass

The vow I gave was an eternal vow,
so should our lord himself desire me,
ought I surrender?
No!
For then and now my very self is not my property.

Since from the start,
when I first loved and said,
“This body will no longer be my own,”
I understood that we would both be dead
the minute our obsession became known.

I'm deeply hurt that you should hesitate to die beside me,
even at my whim—
but if it's been decided as my fate,
of course I will succeed in killing him.
And after that,
I'll turn that very blade on you,
Gonkurō,
who betrayed.

IV. Implicated by His Diamond Crest

Daiemon on the river's bank was naked in the shadow of the reeds;
he entered in the river,
and he sank.
Though it is deep,
desire for love exceeds.

Tannosuke's garden must convey that he was crying uncontrollably—
oh, even for a dream that would not stay,
that was too sad to bear,
too hard to see.

Tannosuke pressed the dripping chest of Daiemon to him in relief
and took him in to whisper and to rest;
Daiemon soon forgot his grief.
When morning brings its treasonous routines,
at least we meet again in nightmare scenes.

V. A Sword His Only Memento

Birds left the sky for me when I exclaimed;
if I disliked a man, there was no need for me to speak to him;
if I proclaimed a crow a heron, everyone agreed.

When I had gone to sleep in disarray,
he slipped a pillow underneath my head,
and if my coverlet had slid away,
he covered me with blankets from his bed.
His kind attentions came to me in sleep,
reality impinging on a dream.

We swore our faithfulness,
a pledge I keep like still-green pine,
a pledge of my esteem.

These privileges were born from his embrace,
the consequence of his indulgent grace.

VI. Though Bearing an Umbrella, He was Rained Upon
Korin 1

Korin's answer did not show him the gratitude one might expect of a boy
(so far below him)
granted favor and respect.

“Forcing me to yield to power is not love.
I will not cower;
my heart is mine,
and if one day someone should come to me
and say loving words in true reflection,
I'd welcome him inside my room.
I want to love someone on whom I can lavish real affection—
and if your love were something real,
I'd know it in the way I feel.”

VII. Though Bearing an Umbrella, He was Rained Upon
Korin 2

Cut off my strong right arm;
cut off my left—
but I will never say for you his name.
You'll never have it on your lips to shame me with your lips again,
to shame by theft my lips,
to shame my fingers with your deft, unyielding fingers
and your blunted aim.

I warned you at the start,
and so the blame will rest on you when I'm reborn and you're bereft.

These hands are hands that touched;
these arms are arms that held;
this mouth has kissed—
so chop me up and show them that they must obey you, too.

Remember you have stolen from my charms;
remember you were drinking from my cup,
and know that I did not belong to you.

VIII. His Head Shaved on the Path of Dreams
Sanai

A copy of the temple garden at Shōun-ji in Sakai was to be constructed,
and I often sat and watched the workers set the scene abuzz.
Thus,
on the evening when the Sago palms were planted,
I was perched upon a rock.
I cupped some water from the spring,
like alms within my hands,
to drink before my walk.
I threw the extra water on the ground behind me,
not perceiving anyone was standing there,
but then I heard the sound of laughter,
and a soft, low voice made fun:
“Ah—
one day I was hoping to be rained upon by you,”
he merrily explained.

IX. His Head Shaved on the Path of Dreams
Kan'emon

This afternoon,
when we were on the road,
I carried you.
You seemed to me too small to walk alone,
too beautiful to crawl along the earth—
much better if you flowed like clouds across this floating world.
I showed my inner self to you and laughed to call myself your slave.
You,
with your soldier doll,
pretended duels,
pouncing when I slowed.

Tonight,
when we were in my room and flames lit up your face,
we cuddled side by side;
I carried you;
I watched your clothing swish;
I called you General—
these were just games,
but knowing of the skill with which you ride,
I'll gladly call you anything you wish.

X. Grudge Provoked by a Sedge Hat
Seihachi

If everyone perceives the way I feel,
the ways I show you favor,
I don't mind,
because I feel the world must not stay blind to sunlight
and your innocent appeal.

If everyone sees through the way I kneel beside you,
I don't mind;
I make this kind of gesture to untie the cares
that wind around your ankles,
pulling you to heel.

And if you know I love you,
I don't care—
unless it brings you sadness or distress;
so if you wouldn't like to understand,
please think of what I do as nothing,
air that drifts and doesn't muss your hair or press too hard against you,
tugging at your hand.

XI. Grudge Provoked by a Sedge Hat
Rammaru

A spiteful word was spoken out of turn,
and he whirled 'round with fury in his eyes,
the set of his too-yielding lips unwise as passion,
firm as thunder,
quick to learn the promise of vendetta,
quick to spurn in pure disgust the man who mocked his cries,
and cold with indignation at the lies he told in company without concern.

He doomed himself who spoke those words.
This boy did not take insults lightly;
whispers of his many lovers would not be begun.
Though men by hundreds used him as their toy,
his virtue lived,
and while he may make love to thousands of them,
he loved only one.

XII. The Sickbed No Medicine Could Cure

“Friend of memory,
your condition is poor,
and this is bound to show;
if you're in a bad position,
don't let me be the last to know.
Are you shamed to love another since you loved me first?
No other fulfillment of my vow is there than pleasing you;
let me declare all your love to him.
I'll handle it all exactly how you'd like.”

Samanosuke forged the spike that Uneme used for scandal;
he left when Uneme had gone and said that he could not go on.

XIII. He Fell in Love When the Mountain Rose Was in Bloom

Directly to the castle of his lord
at daybreak Shume took the scroll and went.
“A man has fallen deep in love and spent his life in longing,
and he was ignored.
My honor tells me that I must reward his adoration,
but if I relent,
I leave my gentle lord without consent.
I cannot choose;
please kill me with your sword.”
Shume produced the scroll;
the lord received it from his hand.
To read its pages took an hour.
The lord considered Shume's whim and asked the boy to wait.
“Don't be deceived,”
said Shume;
“If I go home now,
one look and I will act improperly with him.”

XIV. Tears in a Paper Shop

One of the heartless dandies
saw the sprig of cherries in Hatsudayū's hand.
“Give me those blooms!”
He swaggered,
cruel and big.

A handsome stranger heard this rude demand.
“Please let me settle this,” in soothing tones he said.
“Give them to him,” he told the child,
then grabbed the bully's sleeve and,
hard as stones,
told him to give them back—
and dryly smiled.
“Some day when you are sober, visit me;
I'd like to set you straight.”

He gave the right address,
but Hatsudayū could see the dandy planned to start an unfair fight.
“I'll go,”
he swore,
“I'll stay on the alert—
I'll die before I see this man get hurt.”

XV. A Huge Wine Cup Overflowing with Love

Look:
your papa loved him madly,
beyond his means,
beyond his strength.

Some say purple shows up badly at night,
but even at this length,
it is lovelier than ever,
that wisteria,
the clever and handsome symbol on his crest.

Look:
isn't he the very best?

No one can predict the turning of worlds;
I thought the very least that I could do before he ceased breathing
was convey his burning
and beg a message of release to help my husband die in peace.

XVI. The Man Who Resented Another's Shouts

“You risked so much for my sake”—
a caress—
“It makes me very happy”—
and without a pause to change to ordinary dress,
he bound himself in love that did not doubt.

Sanzaburō gave himself away,
lost interest in his work,
scorned other men.
His lover sobbed and vowed,
but went astray,
and he would never hear from him again.

Through every day,
he yearned to hear his voice;
when nighttime stopped his ears,
he merely tried to live 'til dawn;
and then,
as if by choice,
as happens in this floating world,
he died like blossoms in hard rain and frozen dew
or moonlight veiled by cloud-mists from our view.

XVII. Fireflies Also Work Their Asses at Night
Iori & Handayū

The skill of Yoshida Iori and Fujimura Handayū is remarkable:
affectionate,
they quiz their patrons playfully;
without a strand of weakness,
they are pliant.

Soon unmanned,
Iori's patron frenzies in a fizz of words,
abandons on the pillow his life's fortune at those words and in that hand.

Handayū stays too cold and still,
not snuggling,
and makes the gentleman start wondering
what he's done wrong to raise this temper.
Then he whispers, with a thrill,
a single,
beautiful suggestion.

Can a man forget such skill in all his days?

XVIII. Fireflies Also Work Their Asses at Night
Handayū

I am like the firefly,
glowing—
but it shines only in the night.
Here I am 'til dawn.
Keep going and never rest at noon;
invite.
If you wish to rent or borrow,
I'll be on display tomorrow.

Thus,
only secretly,
he comes at night,
while I beat drunken drums,
to where I am entertaining,
releasing fireflies—
so I'm told.

People wondered whom the gold lights were meant to touch,
complaining of mystery.
But now I see that they were meant to glow for me.

XIX. An Onnagata's Tosa Diary

“Master Han'ya,”
he called out loudly,
“Loving you is brazen,
too outspoken,
but accept this proof I give you proudly of sincerity,
this modest token...”
Saying this,
he made as if to linger on the stage.
He pressed his hand securely to the floor and cut his little finger off
with five or six sword strokes,
demurely.

Han'ya said, calm and kind,
“Devotion is an honor to receive,
and later I will surely sweeten that emotion—
now, the stage's pull on me is greater.
So the play today is not diminished,
wait for me backstage until I've finished?”

XX. An Unworn Robe to Remember Him By

He did not really need to die, they said:
he killed himself with an inflated sense of honor.

When the grandiose events of New Year finished,
someone went ahead to say the play was starting,
but his bed was chaste fidelity,
and the expense of not playing the whore to malcontents
left Hayanojō without a thread.

His servant had no choice now but to tell the truth,
and he was frightened,
but the strings that held the boy broke softly.

Laughing low, he said,
“So promises of love won't sell.
Why is it in this floating world that things go
never as we wish that they would go?”

Sonnet LXVI

Oh no! Again I'm realizing just
how much, much more I know than she who is
my teacher. It is painful, but I must
refrain from editing her weekly quiz.

But her experience is long and broad;
I want to hear her fascinating past.
The things that she could teach me must be odd,
(if only I could hear them) odd and vast.

And suddenly, I have this sickened fear
that this might be how I was when I taught.
I try to say things only if it's clear
I know my subject well, so maybe not...

I shudder--this humiliating farce
is begging me to check, to search, to parse.

Sonnet Cycle: Love

I.

One word I hate is “love”, because it has
so many meanings that it has become
completely meaningless, and thus, it’s as
inept and pointless as ourselves. It’s numb.
What’s told about it is so many lies:
they say it’s always lovely, always good,
or always something we should realize,
or always anything (or always should!).
I hesitate to rip apart the hopes
of simple folk; who knows? Perhaps their dreams
will really come to be, and all these tropes
will spring to life and chalk up all the screams.
I only know myself; I always find
that Love is often cruel, seldom kind.


II.

I believe that every person
desires the Good, that we are drawn
to perfection, some insertion
the soul absorbs (and then it’s gone).
Love’s the perfect recognition
of that Good in one position:
we followed Love and swore our hearts.
Then Love revealed itself in parts
and we knew it false: and whether
deliberate deception or
a simple emptiness of core,
we discover late the tether
is tied, and our attempts to please
just prove us mediocrities.


III.

A perfect one does not exist, and yet,
I can envision him: I take a horn
and take a horse and make a unicorn;
I make a griffin and a cherubet,
and those I owe my focus I forget.
They know me, but I leave them all forlorn,
and give them no approval and no scorn;
pay them no attention, am no threat—
for they are not Perfection. It is he
whom I pursue; I long to press my lips
against his cold and frightened skin just there.
I follow ever after him to see
if I can catch him, but he always slips—
I touch him, and he melts away to air.


IV.

Love is merely the desire
to fully, carefully possess.
Thus I see the Good entire
and hunger to consume the mess,
take it in myself, and make it
part of me. I swallow, take it
in an embrace; I button right
this goodness to me, close and tight.
But unluckily things perish
when they are burnt or smothered still
or eaten all at once at will,
leaving me, although I cherish
them and long to swim and drown
in fountains I cannot drink down.


V.

And Love, when—if—it comes, is everything.
It fills the mind with images and sounds,
the hands are busy with creation rounds,
and sleep’s no longer needed, fall or spring.
And Love’s the greatest motivating side;
it’s stronger in a contest than is Force,
it’s swifter than is Shame at nightfall’s source,
it’s sweeter when fatigue sets in than Pride.
We know, of course, Love’s power’s hard to sway;
to overcome it, one must stab one’s thrall
with ice one gathers from the frozen font—
then self-control and honor win the day—
but I hate Love because I never fall
in love with people I’m allowed to want.

Sonnet LXIII: Turning Point

We're living in a time of rapid change,
a moment of which we are unaware.
To Grandma, polio would not be strange;
my children will have laser vision care.
And I have seen computers go from things
that awe to things that dangle from the wrist.
Whole languages are changing. Whores and kings
have changed; if we're behind, then we'll be missed.
I could, tomorrow, go to Kathmandu,
or watch, right now, TV from Singapore.
The world is shrinking, not so small that you
are caged just yet, but more and more and more.
I know now how it must have felt to be
with Alexander toward the Outer Sea.

Sonnet LIX: Nixy

Born guilty, made from time's incipience
to serve as Nature's balance, I breathe free
and empty darkness, pulling down to dense
oblivion the fools I draw to me.

My cold charisma pulls them in; I turn
them into monsters who have guilt and shame
to rival mine, but who cannot discern
the Truth, the Way, the Secrets, or the Name.

My guilt is on me; shame is on me, too,
and endless suffering to me is sent
for what I am compelled to be and do:
I make no choice and yet feel punishment.

I can't complain, though: I enjoy my lust,
and Nature is by definition just.

Sonnet LVII: Second Place is First Loser

My fingers (limp, forgotten, open wide)
on broken Eden generously pour
from heaven myrrh and honey to each side.
Throughout the world beneath me, with a roar
of desperate desire, the people reach
for Sky, to drink and drown in all that falls
from my unheeded hands, but all their speech
is far-off babbling to my ears, their calls
a clamor, for a hundred thousand times
too small are they for me to heed their noise.
I look above me, whence are poured the limes
and honeyed lemons of the gods (whose poise
does not allow their ears to hear my name),
a million times too large to know my shame.

Sonnet LVI

That old-ish man whose voice was cracked like clay
said frankly that he liked the way I smelled
and asked if I had maybe bathed today,
disturbing reservations that I held.

And then he started in on how I looked
just like a high school girl, which, to be fair,
is something I have heard before, and crooked
his finger luridly and sniffed my hair.

But when I caught a whiff of what he'd drunk,
my brain went off and added up the sum:
tomorrow, if he's worked out of his funk,
when he wakes up, he's gonna feel real dumb.

And my compassion's tender to the touch:
I think that I did not dislike him much.

Sonnet L: Anthropology Classroom

Uneasy and embarrassed, Johnny sits
and listens as his self, each living piece,
is sifted, labeled, broken into bits,
condemned, and then discarded 'til they cease,
and at the end, they've rendered him bereft
of all his life and all he knew before.
Just broken pieces of cement are left
that do not fit together anymore.
They say to Johnny, "Build your soul anew,"
and hand to him the mortar, thick and cold,
along with brand-new stones and straw and sticks.
They know today, and yesterday they knew,
that any leftovers he still may hold
will never fit among the square-edged bricks.

Sonnet XLVII

It's certain we don't know what we don't know
and whether we should know it as arranged
is useless as an earnest question, so
don't ask it. We don't know; that can't be changed.
So punish us in justice and in full.
Make ashes of our bodies and our lands,
and give a flash of pain that dyes our wool
with blood and screaming bright inside our hands.
Just kill us; tear our stomachs from our lungs
and hammer, hammer it into our brains
with nails of information; nail our tongues
to our apologies and our remains:
but do it only once (it will suffice)
and not forevermore--not even twice.

Sonnet XLV

When I was searching for domestic bliss,
I thought I wanted someone cute and dumb,
some big-eyed baby I could snuggle, kiss,
and boldly rescue from its native slum.
I pictured admiration, gratitude,
enthusiasm; I could teach, decide,
give presents, answer questions, hand out food,
expect respect, obedience, and pride.
I pictured happy curiosity
and sweetness; I imagined being free
from nagging and accountability,
from punishments and cynical ennui.
I thought I wanted someone cute and dumb.
I got one. Now I wish I had a chum.

Sonnet Cycle: Romantic Friendship

I.

When that one’s earnest eyes are soft and brush
against me, I am conscious of her plea,
but I don’t know what makes her fancy me.
Her glances turn my insides into slush;
My heart and fingers tremble, and I flush
with pleasure and confusion—why should she,
a nymph with so much choice, so lovely, be
enamored of me, with a schoolgirl crush?

So I made this promise as I kissed her:
never to descend to such a station
as to bring reproach upon my treasure.
I will be the sweetest older sister,
prove my person fit for admiration
by whatever yardstick one may measure.


II.

If I were capable of crafting stone,
I’d build a pillar higher than the sky
and put you on it, wholesome and alone
so everyone could gaze on you and sigh.

If I were capable of spinning light,
I’d clothe you in the raiment of the sun
while cobwebs clasped your body, tall and slight,
and dewy spangles left your hair undone.

If I were capable of finding life,
I’d fill my cup with water from that spring,
preserve you in your childhood as my wife,
and bind you tightly with a sacred ring.

I only swear to honor and protect,
for this I can do; this you may expect.


III.

Ah! The frantic heartbeat, racing, pounding
when I attend the footstep on the stair,
the hands that pale and tremble unaware
at the call that gracefully goes sounding,
and the tumult when I, with fond affection,
see the glass shine out with your reflection,
the tears that fall with frank, intense relief,
at your caress in total disbelief:
all imply a neat, efficient answer,
so dangerous, so elegant a sore,
yet safer than our lives had been before,
standing there behind us, like a cancer,
not pressing us to question or discuss,
but waiting for acknowledgement from us.


IV.

Can something this delightful last for long?
Or is this rash of passion just a flash?
Can anything so powerful, so strong,
stay longer than a raindrop in a splash?

The most expensive medicines are found
within the buds that in a single night
must bloom and die and wither to the ground
and never turn their faces to the light.

And there are creatures that, when they are young
are sweet and lovely, but when they are grown,
are terrible of claw and sharp of tongue
and turn their fearsome rage against their own.

If our romance must follow either way,
I’d rather that it die than fade to gray.


V.

I sit to write this sacred letter,
think how this is hardly still the fashion,
fill the page with flowery words of passion,
reinvent the form to suit us better...
I remember when you lost your sweater,
and I saw you, sitting cold and ashen.
Since that moment, you have been my ration;
I have been your servant and your debtor.

What could make an independent person,
fall in love while knowing she, the giver,
will again, with innocent illusions,
give, provide, and watch the friendship worsen
‘til she has to beg for every sliver
of affection? These have strange conclusions.


VI.

You will never do that awful action
although she did and does it to this day,
though he did and laughed with satisfaction.

And I’m unwise to trust in you this way,
to believe in you when I’m awake.

This is, of course, the very same mistake
that I have made a thousand anguished times,
with every man who cried about his crimes,
and with every leaf that fell, unwanted,
from its majestic, silent father-tree.

I’m easier than any girl should be.

I am easy prey, but never daunted,
and I believe in you like a savant,
and please, you know exactly what I want.

Sonnet XV

You, white and softened marble of the night,
are in a calming sky of cotton blue:
for what is it we use the firelight?
The only brilliance I require is you.

The stars are not so useful, not so rare,
for you presented first the mirrored glass,
and you continue on whether you care
about us, who have lives as short as grass.

If there is something beautiful and strong,
salvation might be possible for Earth.
Destruction in the fire does you wrong.
Who is it dares to undermine your worth?

Oh, moon of whitest stone in fabric sky,
why must the fire dazzle in my eye?

Sonnet XIV

Beloved, do I give a greater share
of love to you than to the darkest chord,
which, having sounded, hangs upon the air
and echoes where our memories are stored?

And would I rather choose to be near you
than to the softest, clearest flower's leaf,
or to the smoothest ice, the brightest hue,
the greenest apple, the most golden sheaf?

And ought I rather save you for the world
than even the most ordinary day,
the foulest insect-kind that ever flew,
or the most squalid ghetto's filthy gray?

No, I would not; ought not destroy the whole,
and neither for you will I damn my soul.

Sonnets XII & XIII

XII.

It seems as though, in some kinds of despair,
each little thing that people do or say
is one more symptom of the human flair
for petty evil, driving Truth away,

And when despair is of a type more rare,
the tiny details seem to small to pay
attention: hopeless, pointless. I don't care
to notice them; my mind is prone to stray.

No matter what I do, I seem to bear
this heavy grief. I'm garish moral gray,
the very evil I despise. An air
of failure swirls, demanding that I stay.

Like tasteless food, the worthless oaths I swear
can have no consequence. I weep and pray.


XIII.

I fall in reverence at Hebe’s feet!
The nectar and ambrosia revealed
by her so unattainable conceit
are reasons that my awe is unconcealed.

Thus I, her fearless cupbearer, compete
to be her knight, into her morning-wheeled,
bright chariot to lift her, to complete
the child that gossamer and cobweb healed.

I fear among the chaff will fall the wheat:
the world seems poised to overthrow this field,
to drag her virtue through the muddy street,
to use true lies to bare what is concealed.

If I were not affected by deceit!
If only I could be that sturdy shield!

Sonnet XI: How Rare a Thing

How rare a thing is love that tends two hearts
toward each other, simultaneous,
with no contrivance, no mechanic parts,
uncultivated, full spontaneous.

How lovely is the conflict when one rides
to war, expecting pain to be endured,
and finds instead the battle has no sides,
and victory already is secured.

And how delightful it must be to find
by one's own garden stream a shady tree,
untended, extant since before our kind.
How rare! How precious such a thing must be!

I marvel at such futile treasures; yet,
for you, I will protect, forget, regret.

Sonnet X: In Like a Lion

I'm bigger on the inside than the out:
if I don't find an outlet of some kind,
the force will be too much--I have no doubt--
and I'll explode. My skin will split, unwind:

my heart will rise to satisfy my thirst;
the clouds will part, receive it; and my blood,
like any fountain, from my chest will burst,
and bathe the earth--an overwhelming flood.

The first warm wind of spring has come today.
I smell the dampness of the sacred earth.
The world is calling me to run away,
and all within me screams from searing mirth.

Today, I know if I could just escape
my body, I could fly to my true shape.

Sonnet IX

These terrors with derisive words of praise
are sometimes soft; they sometimes coil and grate.
Today, as on so many other days,
I fear I will be overcome by hate,

self-loathing neither merciful nor kind,
nor gentle, nor immaculate, nor free,
and all that’s good is spoiled, and death is twined—
not rest, but death is twined—in all I see.

Beneath the breastbone, pain regroups and pours.
There is no respite, and we cannot run.
Our sins (and my sins): all are rancid sores
that never heal. They will not be undone.

The point that merits sympathy and scorn
is that we plant, caress, and tend each thorn.

Sonnets VII & VIII

VII.

I, it seems, eschew the vain and merry,
and I left the house alone as ever.
There was nothing I could wish to carry.
I need nothing more for my endeavor.

In the darkness, I had no companion
but Orion. He was coldly shining,
shedding light into the deepest canyon.
Death was near. I stood there, fearing, pining.

If I go or stay--it doesn't matter.
No one would be injured by the scandal.
Vain attempts to flee the mindless chatter
have no meaning. I can hardly handle

all the knowledge massed in one conclusion:
worthless are both friendship and exclusion.


VIII.

And now I have begun to dream of him.
I cannot flee my own subconscious wiles,
so it is not my fault, my wish or whim,
if now I know the bliss of gentle smiles.

I've been so good! I guard my hapless mind
with steel and granite: firm, unyielding. Still,
at night, I make myself fall deaf and blind
to force his voice and image from my will.

Should love lead me to hope or to despair?
Righteous men exist! And love is real!
I bask within his warmth, his health, his care.
Unto his mercy I might still appeal.

A word might change my heart's ill-timed incline--
yet Fate decreed he never shall be mine.

Sonnets V & VI: Two Sonnets for One Man

V.

I look away from him, but still I see
the parting of his lips, his shoulder’s curve,
the movement of his lashes. Not for me
are such as these. Unknown, unpaid, I serve.

My face is turned away toward safety now,
but danger lingers anywhere he goes,
and as I close my eyes, I take a vow
to flee from hope, though constantly it grows:

innumerable kindnesses he gives;
he seeks me out; he holds me as his peer;
we laugh; we play; he tells me how he lives;
his eyes light up whenever I come near.

Oh, I’d believe he loves me, too, for sure—
if I had not seen how he honors her.


VI.

I’d ask, if I could voice my one desire,
that I might be allowed to worship you.
Beneath your banner, I would never tire.
To glorify your name, the deeds I’d do…!

If only I could honor you in song
or write you sonnets from the heart you moved…
I’d conquer continents to make you strong;
I’d recreate the world if you approved.

I’d suffer pain forever in your name.
I’d take your sins upon myself hereby:
for you, I’d burn in hell’s eternal flame.
And oh! If I might be allowed to die!

I must have your permission for each task.
Alas! My friend, it seems I may not ask.

Sonnet IV: In the Land of the Fisher King

The land that once was fertile falls a-waste,
And where the grail, of which I might inquire?
Why, prophets false, deny we are disgraced?
The Fisher King must falter to retire.

The foolish ask which sin has caused this blight,
But all sins are and each sin is to blame.
I flush to think that in my fear I might
One question ask and finish all that came.

Still in my heart, the stirrings of the quest
Entice me deeper still into the drought.
Deceptions will obscure our god’s request.
And is it here? I long to seek it out.

To follow close my fate is ever cursed,
And yet another man will find it first.