“hell, nor am I out of it”

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem

Your yesteryears are not old embers, coals

Imperial topaz in their blaze but now

Are ashes, diamonds burnt by fire, are souls

Reduced in Hell.  Incinerated vow

Of virgin novice, your past years become

Lost soot, impurity of hope, or soot

Of lust.  Your yesteryears are blind and numb.

They cannot note you.  They are schwartz, kaput.

No penitential priest can resurrect

Those years however black his robe.  Confess

In sacred passion and though full, correct

And mournful you, they smear, dead, dead unless . . .

  Unless you are unholy Christ, and then

    They flare with incandescent flames’ Amen.

© Phillip Whidden