Seeking the Perfect Man, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

I knew a girl with countless fears
Who every day shed bitter tears,
And round and round the world she ran
While looking for the perfect man.

She said, “Like Jesus Christ I’ll be—
The Sinless One who pleases me!
Courtship is what I want, not dating:
I think I’ll put off love and mating.”

One day she thought she’d found her pearl,
But he was looking for a girl—
A rich patrician, young and fair—
A paragon beyond compare!

At forty-four  her search was done:
She found Him — and became a nun.

My Rose above all roses, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

‘Madonna of the Magnificat’, Botticelli, 1482 (detail)

There is no rose without a piercing thorn,
And shadow closely cleaves to radiant light;
And though for life and love we have been born,
Our life’s a struggle, love our painful plight.

But you are light alone and my life’s breath,
And for you daily my love tender grows;
A thousand thorns I’ll challenge unto death
For you who’ve pierced my heart, my heavenly Rose.

Lines to a Decadent Shrew, by Anonymous [*POEM*]


Pastiche of a poem by Hilaire Belloc

Blind, perverse, corrupted Shrew,
Resembling the devil in all you do!
Shrew, destroyer of all that’s good,
From youth you’ve poisoned all you could;
Promoter of porn, abortion, gays—
You serve your Father in so many ways;
Shrew dirty in bed and worse with mammon,
Shrew, cause of wars and tears and famine;
Shrew arrogant, Shrew of bile and lies,
Shrew reckless, Shrew with roving eyes.

Shrew twisted, Shrew obsessed, Shrew scary,
Shrew self-absorbed and solitary;
Shrew blustering and epileptic,
Shrew puffed and empty, Shrew dyspeptic;
Shrew hypocritical, Shrew bad,
Shrew furtive; Shrew, like Hitler, mad!
Shrew (since a man must make an end)
Shrew that shall never be my friend—
That is, until fall from your eyes
The scales of Satan, and you arise.

You’re just a shrew like Shrews of old,
With necks of bronze and sacks of gold;
Imbibing—as they thieved men’s homes—
Hell’s poison from satanic tomes!
Like them you curse, blaspheme, and bawl;
Like them one day in hell you’ll fall;
Thou turncoat Shrew, to sin devoted,
Shrew to thine own damnation quoted,
Perplexed to find thy trivial name
Reared in my verse to lasting shame.

Shrew dreadful, swinish Shrew and swearing,
Repulsive Shrew, Shrew past all bearing!
Shrew of the cold and sinister breath,
Shrew despicable, Shrew of death!
Shrew sly, Shrew nasty in night revel,
Shrew snotty, Shrew so like the devil!
Shrew, symbol of dark hate and horror—
Shrew whose mind is in Gomorrah.
Begone, O parasitic Shrew—
Who serve the devil in all you do!

Based on Hilaire Belloc’s Lines to a Don

The Rose of Memory


Soon, soon again you’ll see the world
reflected in those long-lost eyes!—
there where dead children play again

in the gardens of paradise.

There where young lovers, two by two,
walk by the waters of lost song,

you’ll pluck the pristine rose again—

the rose of memory all night long.

The devil at your door

The devil at your door

Dead fishes in the river
beneath the bridge whirl by
and end up in the ocean
where one day you and I

will make our way when music
and laughter mean no more
and the only one who’s knocking
is the devil at your door:
the smiling rogue who taunts you
with a twinkle in his eye,
“D’you want a kiss, my darling—
one last kiss before you die?”

Light and Shadow

We hear it often when it’s wet and cold:
the malediction, murmur, and complaint—
as if it were God’s job to scatter gold
down from the sky to please us and to paint
the world bright green: to stop the winter weather:
to give us always summer and sweet spring
and keep us safely this side of our tether.
But no, that wouldn’t work. Bright days don’t bring
us happiness. The sun’s no cure for pain.
Gray days are also needed and black night—
and the gift of tears, too, like golden rain.
Out of the well of darkness, springs the light.
Mull this, my soul, in time of death and loss:
no resurrection comes without a Cross.

Variation on a poem by Lucius Knightsword. (See here)

Nature’s Parables: Winter, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

We hear it very often when it’s wet
and cold: the curse, the murmur, the complaint;

as if we held almighty God in debt
to give us warmth and sunlight, and to paint
the world bright green without the snow and rain;
to send fair Summer, pleasant Fall and Spring
without the cold and wind — without the pain —
as if we did not know that would not bring
more happiness, but total, painful loss.
Can there be life without the winter rain?
Can we accept its gifts and still complain?
We often hate the cold that makes us strong.
We learn to love the light when nights are long —
In Winter lives the mystery of the Cross.

Song of the Silent Swan, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

In memory of Rachel Corrie

I came upon a swan and asked to hear from her a song.
She said, “I sing in silence, and in silence you will hear
A song far greater, if you will but listen to His voice,
Whom you with earthly eyes can’t see, because He is so near.

But I am not permitted yet to sing, or I would lie:
For God made me to listen in the silence my life long,
Composing every day for Him the notes of one sweet song,
Which I will sing most beautifully the day I am to die.”

Original Sin, by Darrell Wright [*POEM*]

“The brute creation suffers not from this…”
We’re quick to see in others’ eyes the splinter,
but find it hard to notice our own beam.

We smile like summer when our soul’s in winter
and say we’re fine when we would like to scream.
The brute creation suffers not from this;
a shrink is something animals don’t need.
They never hide to copulate or piss,
nor do they smile to see their neighbor bleed.

Carmina Angelorum: Gian Franco Spotti (Italian translation)

Irreali, senza forme
Così si assiepano e arrivano come torme!

Canzoni come foglie caduche discendono
Dal vento celeste a terra sbattendo

Merlo, gorgheggia! Usignolo sii pronto
Spezza il tuo cuore ma della tua storia fanne un racconto!

Nonostante tutti i loro peccati
I violini dagli angeli sono strimpellati

Per te. Questa musica dagli dei proviene
Essi ne spezzano il senso, le parole tagliano insieme

Ma a chi importa? Così tanti suoni
Come chicchi di grandine tutt’intorno in frastuoni

Chi lancia una maledizione per un uccello cinguettante?
O orafo dalla parola fiorente

Sappi questo: le migliori canzoni  perdute sono già
E niente di bello durerà.

Fiori, foglie e Flora cadranno tutti
In cima al mucchio di composta di Tutti

Nella pentola della strega se ne vanno
Amore e bellezza dove a cucinare stanno

E dalle inezie universali
Queste canzoni sorgono e diventano reali

Sebbene il succo dal sangue della nostra vita è alimentato
Brilla nel bicchiere il vino dorato

Lasha Darkmoon’s Carmina Angelorum, translated by Gian Franco Spotti

I Tiresias

I Tiresias sit by the wall
of Thebes, and watch with sightless eyes
the passing show; and each footfall
gives meaning to my song of sighs.

These sounds are mixed with magic so
that anyone upon whose ear
they fall, will sense the sacred glow;
and know what storms have swept me here.

Nor need my words be meaningful
so long as in them gods go round,
for the hidden Muse hides her soul
in the silence between my sounds.

My music’s mocked! I don’t belong.
Though the world hates me and I’m blind,
I dip the ladle of my song
into the cauldron of God’s mind.

By lonely windows

By lonely windows

See the damned at twilight sitting
by their lonely windows where

night’s black shadows, ghostly flitting,
mark their features with despair.

Here they swoon in rooms of fire
raging for red moons that bring
satisfaction of desire
such as make their demons sing.

Pale and trembling, sick with anguish,
lashed on by their old
see them in long shadows languish
for their dead loves in convulsions.

Crazed with lust, they waste their treasures,
lost and doomed to their devices:
secret sins and sickly pleasures
and sad, solitary vices.