Among the Stench of Abasement, a Sonnet for Good Friday
Where poetry is from is far away
Or cavern deep, or both, or just a girl
Who passes on the sidewalk, hair a-sway,
Or even one full man whose hair is curl,
And curl and curl persuading in their black,
As black as an abandonment in love.
Perhaps real poetry is from that sack
A wizard opens or an emeraled glove
A saint is wearing in an abbey made of aisles
Stretched out to beauty that we know, ideals
That we will never clutch, a love of trials
The martyrs sought, things holy death reveals.
Who wants such tangled stuff? It seems we all
Do, wanting revelations that appal.
~ Phillip Whidden