Monday, December 26, 2005


Wm. Blake [1757-1827] "ISAAC NEWTON" c1795


Again, the little door to darkness
opens with incantation;
"Bless me Father,
for I have sinned."

A woman, head bowed, uncovered
as is the modern want,
recites her litany of little sins,
envy, doubt, despair-

In his dark corner, the priest
leans toward the voice,
"Tell me of this unfaithfulness
of what, and where, and whom."

In two score years of ministering
he never tires of the sounds,
as women tell their tales.

Slowly he leads her to that first meeting,
that first kiss,
Oh, the love he can feel in her memories.

He smiles at love`s blossoming,
the titter in her whispering,
no longer shameful
but proud in lustful abandon.

And of the sighs of pain
at the inevitable loss,
her suitor gone,
taking all the fairy tales.

It is only in this little room,
when all the tales are told,
that he can cry for love
the savoring, never come.