Snow Light

Snow Light
by Gideon Burton

I think this time the snow was made of light
itself. Perhaps, if I may speculate,
when sunrays linger in the starry height
between the moon and time grown late,
they shudder in the cold of blackened time,
then shakes themselves to crystaled shards of ice,
to frost more delicate than autumn rime,
to flaking whispers, grains of hollow rice.
For as the quiet snow began to fall
today, it seemed to have no weight, no mass,
no juicy core to squeeze into a ball.
No sooner held, it disappeared as fast.
     This snow was never water if I'm right;
     it came from star fields dense with shadowed light.

Photo: flickr - IceNineJon

Seeking the Good

Seeking the Good
by Gideon Burton

inspired by Philippians 4:8 and the 

13th article of faith 

All lovely things and virtuous, the white
inside of light, the sting of sweat, designs
that angle gravity, the binding bite
of interlocking fingers, laughter lines--
All things of good report: a budget kept,
a double-windsor tied on first attempt,
a flaky crust, a long jump deftly leapt,
a child from heaven's mercy not exempt--
I see the more I seek the more I see
that everywhere and everything and more
is more: the world in messages for me,
a refuge, message, comfort, pleasure, store.
     I look to see fresh subjects for bright praise,
     and warming oceans wash me in their waves.
    

Photo: flickr - Phil Strahl

A Perfect Language

A Perfect Language
by Gideon Burton

So tense with time, conjoined to circumstance,
whatever nouns you name or verbs you voice.
We feel in chaos, think by music, dance,
in subtle hues, in sudden shades of choice.
Then come these crude stiff knobs, these waypoint cues
made up of rough-hewn syllables, designed
to traffic code, but we all know the ruse.
We know, and yet to words we are resigned.
And yet, though thin and spent, though prone to fraud,
to fashion and to fashioning-- they work.
They play, they pay fresh dividends though odd,
and often something holy in them lurks.
     The perfect language is the one you use
     in faith that somehow, something will ring true.

Photo: flickr - Joris Machielse

Will I Remember?

Will I Remember?
by Gideon Burton

Will I remember? Gushing waters burst
in splintered roaring force, the firmament
reverberating, echoing, disbursed
in seismic shuddering, in permanent
expansion, rushing winds that heat and spin
the layered atmospheres, the heavy weight
of silent certainty. Can I begin
to name the hour, wield the flux and freight,
the liquid ministrations poured in thick
remissions? Tides of burning waters wash
away the blackened sands, a whitened wick
threads evenly, a filament, a floss
too fine to see, new salt in newer seas.
Will I remember, hushed, on bended knees?

Photo: flickr - stuant63

Thy Mind, Oh Man

The fifth of five sonnets based on the life of Joseph Smith. See the headnote to the first sonnet for details.

Thy Mind, Oh Man
by Gideon Burton
after a passage from Joseph Smith

Thy mind, oh man, must stretch to every height,
toward the thrones of gods that are these stars,
beyond the mountain splendor in our sight,
to touch that destiny He promised ours.
Thy mind, oh man, must widen to that depth,
that press of salt and blood that Jesus knew
within the core where heat and cold are kept,
beside the beast that dying Jesus slew.
My mind, oh God! salvation to behold,
eternities to span and lives to bear,
in vivid vision, truth to truth enfold
upon these vast expanses mutely stares!
     So Joseph, searing prophet, suffering light.
     So we, in burning vision, darkness white!

Photo: flickr - Rosemary McKevitt

---

Thy mind, O man! if thou wilt lead a soul unto salvation, must stretch as high as the utmost heavens, and search into and contemplate the darkest abyss, and the broad expanse of eternity—thou must commune with God. —Joseph Smith

The Faith of Joseph

The fourth of five sonnets based on the life of Joseph Smith. See the headnote to the first sonnet for details.

The Faith of Joseph
by Gideon Burton

How dread those powers gathering the night
around the groaning globe! as though to slow
the rolling waters (quiet in their might)
of truth restored. How Joseph knew the blows
of hateful Satan hissing at his light,
betraying him, assaulting him! Below
indignity, defamed with spit, with spite,
he kept his sight despite the starkest woes.
He kept his vision while he kept his cell,
his liberty within the prison bars.
The Savior, suffering long, had taught him well
the blacker night is, brighter shine the stars.
     "My God!" he cried at Carthage from that hell;
     the faith of Joseph, rising as he fell.

Photo: flickr - More Good Foundation

The Smith of Souls

The third of five sonnets based on the life of Joseph Smith. See the headnote to the first sonnet for details.

The Smith of Souls
by Gideon Burton

If nothing more, Elijah in our hearts!
He turned to God and God to him returned
the promises, the fate for which we yearn:
our generations never need to part,
our fathers' fathers, sons beyond our sons;
our daughters' daughters, mothers to the end;
divided families unbreaking bend,
all life returning where it had begun.
A prophet, sealer, binding us in time
for us to profit, welding hoping hearts
to an eternity of joy, to start
on earth our backward-forward forming line.
     The smith of souls, our Joseph, freely taught
     that families link by link are kneeling wrought.

Photo: flickr - 4nitsirk

Translator

The second of five sonnets based on the life of Joseph Smith. See the headnote to the first sonnet for details.

Translator
by Gideon Burton

The gold was grayed and cold; the plates were thin.
What mystery lay captive in their runes?
His fingers, asking, traced them to begin.
Would history unlock its darkness soon?
Embalmed within the metal, robed in glyphs,
the absent millions whisper from the past;
He scans the ancient scrawlings thick with mist
until their shadows dawn in him at last:
Each thought, unwieldy first, he hefts with sweat,
as though ideas were metal: heavy, dense;
He assays words in dozens, weighed then set,
as heaven trains His prophet, seer, and lens.
To craft the words, to tell each symbol's pith,
the seer-apprentice fashioned, Joseph, smith.

First Vision

A few years ago, at the bicentennial celebration of the birth of Joseph Smith, I was commissioned to write the libretto for a series of five tenor solos composed by David Sargent. This was performed in late 2005 with Lawrence Vincent, tenor soloist and Scott Holden, pianist. I enjoyed working with the composer, who was more than happy to deal with a five-beat line. So, over the next five days, I'm going to post the five sonnets that I did for that occasion. If I can dig up the recorded music, I'll post it here, too.

The complete series: "First Vision"; "Translator"; "The Smith of Souls"; "The Faith of Joseph"; and "Thy Mind, Oh Man."

First Vision
by Gideon Burton
from "In Burning Vision: Sonnets on Joseph Smith" (2005)

It had been raining, softly, through the leaves,
as though to clean the elms, the forest floor,
to douse again the April earth that heaves
its greens to bluest heaven--pleasant chore.
Unlike the sweat and dust of farming days,
the breaking of the sharp, unyielding soil,
to plant again, to hope for warming rays
that sleeping seeds may feel them and uncoil
to burst from shriveled darkness into light,
as though to answer heaven's calling sun
who visits us with columns of his might,
who gives us knowledge pure where there was none.
     It fell to Joseph Smith as light, as rain:
     First, vision, tiny root of godly gain.

Photo: flickr - Aquistbe

Rays

Rays
by Gideon Burton

Like sun rays angled in the water, bent
within the denser medium, aslant
in uniform refraction, sideways sent--
so stirs the breath that hovering heaven grants.
I read the rays outflowing, flooding mass
of lighted warmth as clear as they are grand,
but stumble to retrieve them when I ask
to feel them gathered in my outstretched hand.
Yet to my left and right (as ripples flow
in spiral webbing, pulsing through a pond)
the liquid light connects me in its slow
and even echoing of things beyond.
    I still my voice, make small the din around;
    I listen, touching silence, where He's found.

Photo: flickr - Marty.FM