Chris Hubbard @ Mont Saint-Michel
This is an experimental poem, written to discover whether I can handle a Petrarchan or Italian Sonnet. The rhyme scheme is trickier than I expected! I enjoyed writing it, and I hope you enjoy it.
Light: A Sonnet
A beacon light would soothe the thoughtful soul,
and show the over-wrought their handsome fate,
quell fearful dread, stem terror-rivers' spate,
and illuminate, shun chaos for control,
show wisdom's power to leaven the unknown,
and so to glimpse the dawn-sun radiate
warm solace, calm and comfort each estate
with shining light to hearten those alone;
for clarity in hearts and minds is meet,
bestowing what the gentle spirit lacks.
Enlightenment in all its wondrous forms
falls soft as autumn leaves on a lonely street,
and with simple human reason fondly wraps
its willing arms against the fiercest storms.
This poem, from the mid nineteen-nineties, came from my single brush with the world of psychiatry.
in this laboratory house
of carpet dark wood classical music
i watch a man explore my mind
invasion of veils
folding of folds
strange stranger invader
with finely crafted frontal lobes
will turn my mind
weighing the possibilities
and watch me dance in his power game
small dark dangerous man
Jimmy Hoffa Man
with brains to burn
will squeeze the truth
about each truth
before he disappears
find & fix & fascinate
the lowly life before him
in his immaculate
steamboat cabin room
his chair intently rocking
most anxiously concerned
he will command
i will obey
for fear the lash
of central cortex sear me
and i fade away
Like many, the conjunction of faith and the natural world that is Lindisfarne holds a deep fascination for me. This poem is my attempt to visit the island vicariously, pending an actual encounter.
In fourteen centuries the island grew
her fame: Lindisfarne
lit flames from many fires;
the Norsemen's ravages seared her skin, tried
her ravening faith till Cuthbert's saintly deeds
showed the feckless his pious miracles,
soft in the shadow of the Celtic creed.
I'm no pilgrim to this clime
of Aiden and Bede,
nor even a Christian soul;
but its refuge is a deep, cold well
of storm and peace,
a haven the tide renews
twice each day.
The Priory ruins are full of other people's salvation;
my own is a midnight song.
On its grassy slopes a curlew sandpiper
tries her throat,
pipits like a singing waterfall,
and is gone.