The world is much too big for me,
The people bigger far,
The jobs are much too hard for me:
The world is like a war.
The competition sickens me,
The marketing interns,
The person flaming with success
While their sad neighbour yearns.
There’s nothing I can do for you!
No damn career plans,
No working out a salary,
No future in my hands!
Saddest to say I can’t see God,
A burning world indeed,
A world in which I go to hell
And still don’t take heed.
Yet even nothings go beyond
The reaches of my mind:
Sure to say, of hopelessness
There’ll be another kind.
No, there’s no way to vindicate
But I can’t die quite here:
My poetry may die, because
It should have finished clear,
But still I have to go, return:
Does it the harder grow?
The heart that’s turned away, and sick
Leans out of the window
Longing for God, not my cleverness,
And not my silly rhymes,
Kneeling to God, not my poetry
Or several other crimes.
(Maybe I’ll infinitely regret posting a sonnet, of all things, the day I put it together, like a hangover, but today it’s right to me at least.)
God, give me a coal unto my lips, for this
Too much for my dim-doomed expression is;
Give me no word; opinion careful measure,
Not rattle-tattle chaos of my pleasure,
Which often, late, has been a joy to me
But now I’ve made a bond of being free.
So take my lips, and mould them soft to you;
Let them be shaped, exquisitely, but true.
If I should lose my edges rough,
Become a sphere: is that enough?
For you I will become completely round.
For love of you I do these things,
So that my voice harmonious rings:
Two together make a perfect sound.
Today I cracked my sleep before the dawn,
And, heavy-laden, walking firmly on,
My mind became a waif, shorn on itself.
But still, my natural mirth, it ripples forth
Flooding the dry cracks, wasting itself and time
On loving little things: such life is mine.