Volume 10, Issue 2: Poems
Vineyard of En Gedi - Douglas Wilson
When he gives to her, and she receives it
With passive and gentle ferocity,
He thanks his God who made their bodies fit
Within this law of reciprocity.
So then what appears as carnal pleasure
Is really far more-it is a sacrifice,
Holy and sacred, an earth-bound treasure,
Reflecting glory. I render thanks twice
For here is the women, and here is her head
Gathered in this, their tumultuous bed.
History and Adultery - Douglas Jones
Adulterous saints now crowd movie screens.
"True love" must always supercede their oaths;
our measured fears confirm our tortured choices.
But how they hate their history, themselves.
To know the wife of younger days reveals
A love of history, a chronicle
of kisses-hot and mild, and even forced.
Yet this is secret history for two;
and no one else can ever know like these;
selves framed and molded by each other.
History enhances beauty through the
years. Wrinkles stand as monuments of love,
archeologies of sacrifice.
The faithless smash such fragile treasures
for recent trinkets, even teenage
plastic. Jod covenanted his eyes to
love tradition, despise the shapeless.
Adulterers live the present;
sophisticates on screen truly wobbling
toddlers driving bodies big and tall.
Instead by grace her towers await
to research and ravish for posterity's sake.
Give me more lessons than I can stand.
Lecture me more as I finger your hair.
A Passion for Your Freckles - Douglas Jones
Ancients claimed they shine on those who
rest to long before God's presence,
archangel art to tease and hint.
These Celtic kisses from the sun
reveal a soul that's braising through,
a flashing soul too warm to rest
within. Lament for women trapped
behind Victorian pallor-
monotones, cold nights witout stars.
But how do these, your stars, pull me,
enslave my life, unhinge my knees?
I cannot but pursue them now,
over shoulders, curves cascading,
cinnamon sugar down your back.
I find them, bite them, on your lips
and knees. I corner them between
your fingers- honey-milk about
my tongue. Oh free me from your chains,
but then, again, oh now, please don't.
And somehow they smooth soft skin more;
no science can explain. They draw
my touch and taunt my tracing hand.
When icy winds attack, they do
not pale, but summer takes its stand,
beneath our winter sheets, they warm.
I know them in the dark, cello
rhythms wooing me and perfume
to my touch. They form a royal
setting for those flashing eyes, and
grace your lethal smile that first slew me.
I am undone; other men don't
know my pain. But best of all,
they think I joke.
Futility - Douglas Wilson
Tonight the words don't seem to come
Tonight the meter doesn't fit
And still I write, and still believe
Ut hic poeta docebit.
Tonight the muse is late again
Tonight the muse has not caressed
These lines which wait, impatiently,
Enim carmen bonum est.
Tonight I think to give it up
Tonight I shall lay down the pen
It does no good, I think, to make
An ancient muse American.
Celebratory Doggerel - Douglas Wilson
The lima bean
Said, "I'm a bean,
And I don't care you know it."
The yellow squash
Said, "Pish and posh,
So I suggest you stow it."
Watermelon
Convicted felon,
Said, "If it's too big, then tow it."
The green bean pole
Said, "I've got no soul! . . .
My static state doth show it."
The green grass round
The garden found
That poets tend to blow it.
The poet grim
Said, "I'm not him.
When grass is thick, you mow it."
Mystery - Douglas Wilson
Immense, the mastered universe was molded
in the hands of One
Who spoke the spiraling galaxies, and suffered
them to be
A witness to His worth and strength, His Word
performing all of it.
But powers and principalities, strong princes
thronged in heavenly courts
Stood back amazed, and beckoned still, they
bowed completely down, undone
Through truth declared. This tiny world hears
truth declared by preaching men.
So God was pleased, with grace bestowed to
give mankind fulfillment which
His prohets promised roundabout, who preached
the Word in mists and clouds.
They did not understand those depths, dark
depths a seraph cannot plumb,
But nonetheless they never ceased to nurture
staggered, simple faith
Through words that worked effectually, through
words that conquer quietly.
The Master speaks, the mastered hear while
more are called to loveliness.
So hear creation harmoniuosly sing and harken
to the thundering voice
Which silently suggest prayer and summons man's
reluctant choice.