Provided For

creative commons licensed by James Jordan

Provided For

by Gideon Burton

after D&C 78:17-18:

Verily, verily, I say unto you, ye are little children, and ye have not as yet understood how great blessings the Father hath in his own hands and prepared for you; And ye cannot bear all things now; nevertheless, be of good cheer, for I will lead you along. The kingdom is yours and the blessings thereof are yours, and the riches of eternity are yours.

What copious abundance, ready, set,

awaiting and prepared by Father's hands

but hidden to your little eyes: the grand

and great, the fishes heavy in their net.

Too little, children, yet to see or bear

the rush of grace, the hush of others' pain,

the cresting crush of deserts' sudden rain,

the blooming flush of flesh in fresh repair.

Yet I will lead and cheer you, find your way,

will clear the tangled knots and smooth the road,

will coach and calm and cry and seek and pray.

In joy await: the kingdom keeps for you,

eternities that surge and swirl and flow

in blessings, riches -- quiet, promised, true.

Long Division: A Story in Sonnets #1

Well, I let myself have a bit of time off after completing a year's worth of daily sonnets. The inertia of that regular composing created a rhythm that was hard to break, though, so the last couple weeks I've been in withdrawal. I'm still toying with the idea of trying to tell a story through a series of sonnets. Maybe this could be the start of one.

Long Division: A Story in Sonnets #1
by Gideon Burton

"It's different now," she said, her downward glance
confirming everything: her shift of tone,
as though a sounding bell shook loose their trance;
her calm, as though time bleached a desert bone.
He reached for words, but not for words, he trawled
the murky shallows for a passing trace
of certainty to anchor to. He called
upon a past or future in her face,
a plot line rising from that almond curve
her closing eyes defined, though shutting, wet;
an answer or a question that could swerve
toward assurances; some golden net
to braid new bravery. "I'll take you home."
Then he would wander, sinking, mute, alone.

Photo: flickr - Michael Heilemann

Finishing my 365 Sonnets Project

Well, today I'm finishing a year of posting one sonnet a day. This is something I did once before (not posting them to a blog, but composing one sonnet daily for over three years, between 1998-2001).  I've drawn upon some of those earlier sonnets to supply this round, and I've also occasionally featured a classic poet's sonnet, or a sonnet by one of my students. But by and large, it's been my own new creation every day since February 28, 2010. (Here's the full index in case you're interested).

Many of these sonnets have been imitations (43, in fact), with my major topical categories going to religion (75) and nature (46). Some 19 have been written to or about my wife (my "uxorious" category) and another 5 about marriage. Many of my sonnets are reflective (25), philosophical (32), or even abstract (21). But there are also some 25 humorous sonnets, often about food (21). You can see the full list of tags on the side of the blog.

I just added the Popular Posts widget, something that if I'd put up earlier might have changed some of my writing choices. How do people find and read this little niche blog? Hard to say. Why do some sonnets get read more than others? A puzzle.

Squeezed Muse

Squeezed Muse

by Gideon Burton

I've taxed her limit; this I will admit.

Each day I've wrung her robes for drops of light,

for music (when I wasn't feeling it),

for anger (when I didn't have the fight).

At times she has refused me, made me walk

in blind unrhythmed prose, inert, and blank.

At times the waters burst my writer's block,

then calmed their froth so I had strength to thank.

I've found that one can tame the flighty sprite,

can summon depths and heights that she had hidden.

If I am brave to fail in black and white,

she takes me up the paths that once she didn't.

     A year of writing sonnets, one each day,

     I've squeezed my muse until I've heard her pray.

Photo: flickr - WilWheaton

Untied

Untied
by Gideon Burton

as well as things already loosened, this
among the others, doesn't matter how
precise, how even, every word's a kiss
I've blown in tattered threads of here and now
and anyway so little time contained
(one hundred forty syllables, in fact)
and every one dissolving, unretained,
a sieve of slipping symbols, squared and racked
and raked into a sort of order, signs
and seasons, times and moody moods, complaints
and praise all knotted in the bones and spines
of stanzas, rhymes, and reasons-- so much paint
to gloss the larger rhythms out of sync,
the what and how of how and what I think...

Photo: flickr - mbgrigby

Wilderness

Wilderness
by Gideon Burton

Against these pools of matted dust, this crush
of wet and sliding light, anatomized
by tongues of broken rock, betrayed by lush
anxieties, so many terms revised
in sallow solace, tiled thick with grout--
Among these errant molecules devoid
of plain geometries, the spoils of doubt,
congealed to alkaline too well deployed--
Within this wilderness, this silent wreck
of cactus skin, unspined and greening smooth--
It's simple, really, once the backward trek
to gray conclusions furrows out the groove
of coarse reproaches, edging with their gild
whatever frame of insolence we build.

Photo: flickr - IceNineJon

Moguls

So here's the thing: I'm a skier. I ski better now than I did 20 years ago, and it's because I make time for it and I get better each season. I used to stay away from mogul fields like this one, but now I can't wait to take them on. Today I skied some moguls just like these. They were afraid of me -- or so I like to think...

Moguls
by Gideon Burton

The mountain wall a powdered canvas, white
and waiting for the skiers' serpentine
impressions. Every turn a stroke, a light
suggestion framed in crystals frozen, fine.
As deeper grow the grooves across the day,
the moguls come, like sleeping beasts whose backs,
exposed, emerge as though to block the way.
A challenge I accept, and I attack:
with scissored switching, sharp, between the mounds,
I turn, I turn, descending, faster, bounce
and carve, push off, rotate, reverse around,
then pause a breath before I downward pounce.
     What once were obstacles of danger, dread,
     now pound my heart with blood a richer red.

Photo: flickr - random_matt

Fall Faster, Night

Fall Faster, Night
by Gideon Burton

Fall faster, night, whose breathing, breeding stars
arrest the pride of over golden day.
The liquid cinders' crimson fades to dark
agreement as the final embers fray
then tear, dissolving to an indigo
of silence, sealing up the tardy west.
Resume at once your vast procession, slow
and arching from the ocean to the crest.
Suspend the pendant moon for just awhile,
as though to let the oily tinder light
the mat of lesser stars. Their threads compile
to thatch with silver hair the spinning night.
     This long rotation eases east and slow
     when I would faster feel the heavens grow.

Photo: flickr - ezz_eddie

Sing to Me

I'm very lucky because I'm married to someone who cheers many people with her beautiful voice. Sometimes, it's the only thing I want to hear.

Sing to Me
by Gideon Burton

Build evenly with phrases made of sound
more pure than silent moonlit winter nights.
Construct with smoothest linen tones, with round
and moistened vowels your reply. In bright
hosannas or in humming whispers make
for me redeeming chords to crash and flow
as rivered springtime runoff coldly breaks
in halo sprays. Give me this way to know.
Let words dilate to thinnest wisps of vapor,
for it is but your voice I will attend.
Give up all eloquence, all pen and paper;
your melody sustain until the end.
     Perform this service, sing to me in song;
     compose me whole, with music, softly strong.

Photo: flickr - karenmburton
(used by permission)

There Will Be Fries

There Will Be Fries
by Gideon Burton

Tonight there will be fries, and fries aplenty.
I'm driving to McDonald's with my craving.
I'll get three orders, four -- or maybe twenty.
In vats of ketchup soon we will be bathing.
Don't talk about the salt, the clogging fat,
my arteries constricting with each bite.
Shut up about the carbs, enough of that!
I'll gobble up some more just out of spite.
So savory crisp, deep fried to beige nirvana,
each one a blessing from the fast food gods.
Like bits of meat tossed to a starved piranha,
I will devour all these starchy rods.
     Wolfed down while driving, lest their heat is lost,
     there will be fries, or Daddy will be cross.

Photo: flickr - shazam791