Good Friday

Good Friday
by Gideon Burton

When I forget--this settled peace, erased;
this stillness-fullness broken, emptied, pale,
the numbing noise of business in its place;
this freshness forced to something sick and stale;
my piece of peace a sharpened, cutting shard;
my wholeness raked with ragged ripping holes,
and everything once easy, cold and hard;
this world off-rhythmed, wobbling on its poles--
then come, Redeemer, come unpawn, untie,
undo, bind up, relieve, remind my timid eyes
to look again, to watch, to wait, to try
this trial, wrench from it the brighter prize,
and let you fight for me on bloody knees,
where praying shakes the silent olive trees.

photo: creative commons licensed from aftab via Flickr

Olive

Olive
by Gideon Burton

in memory of our first grandchild, Olive Burton,
who came to us, and left us, on March 25, 2012 

The ultrasound technician didn't know
the baby couldn't stay. Her mother, close
to dying, wouldn't last to keep the flow
of growing until safety interposed.
"And that's her arm, and here's her beating heart.
She's healthy, normal, right on track with growth."
We watched my son with tender groaning start
their child-grief, Adam clutching Eve and both
a witness to the miracle, the spike
of seeing such divinity in reach
that in our darkness nothing seems more light,
more fleeting-weighty than a parent's weeks.
     Oh, little Olive, here and gone again;
     we'll dance with you when time at last unbends.

Love Rocks

creative commons licensed by James Jordan

Love Rocks

by Gideon Burton

for Karen

On balance, I am not -- not balanced, all
these years of trying (and I know I'm trying):
I run, careening, leaning, then I fall
again. (Just saying, not at all implying.)
And what a lovely sentiment to state
"You are the ballast force, the leveling,
the plumb line, ever true, my steady mate,
as constant as my constant life disheveling."
But you, my equal, mess with gravity,
creative force disordering with grace.
A steady state? to you, depravity:
you smiling think, and soon explodes our place.
   Our love has rocked us sleeping and awake,
   a living rhythm, holding as all breaks.

Winter Window

Winter Window
by Gideon Burton

I have been watching at the window, still
enough for tides of moonwash moistening
the cooling glass, the slowing hours, the still
arranging silences. I'm listening.
Above in bloodied trails hot comets score
the flimsy fabric, screaming light. But no
unwintering, no auguring the core
of cold, no pause against the piling snow--
this flow of every evening, evening
to one, to waiting at a window framed
with stains of weary wonder hovering
in something said, in something pure and named
and washing me or watching me or spilled
and spelled with mercies tendered as He will.

Image: Creative Commons licensed through Flickr - Randy OHC

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