Sonnettics

I danced with Mary Wollstonecraft last week
Then danced with Mary Shelley late last night
I asked them both if they would let me speak
I heard them laugh and tell me that they might

I only had to find bright words to say
To garner their permission to be heard
The Mary of my heart will always stay
If I present her with a fitting word

And so we dance with language as our tune
We dance as though we are ménage à trois
Our voltas always seem to come too soon
Or late. They always seem to bear some flaw

But Mary knows that words are only games
And that is why she uses both her names.

The Mary of Magdala came to know
That knowledge of the self is most divine
The paths of Galilee where she would go
Revealed such things to her by their design

Salvation is complete when one is whole
To know oneself, salvation may be found
The beauty of the spirit of the soul
Reveals itself as one eternal round

The Mary of Magdala lives within
The gnosis she discovered and now shares
To mark the paths where knowledge will begin
It shows how much this holy Mary cares

Her gnosis has a firm but subtle call
She learned this truth and teaches it to all.

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🌄 The Rising Light: A Gnostic Resurrection of Mary Magdalene

Scene: Before dawn, near the tomb. The veil between worlds is thin.

The air was still, and the earth did not yet know the sun. I came alone, not out of grief only, but because something stirred in me like a name I had forgotten how to say.

The stone had been moved.

I did not fear, for fear had already passed through me like fire and left only clarity. There was no body. There was no death. The tomb had been emptied like a chalice overturned after the wedding.

And then—

He came to me not as flesh, but as light in the form of remembrance, a voice that spoke not to my ears but to the deep place within me, where spirit gathers its knowing.

“Mary.”

He said my name as one who writes it in the book of life.

“Rabboni,” I whispered—not teacher of law, but revealer of mysteries. Not the carpenter’s son, but the Logos unbound, the Bridegroom of the soul.

He said:

“Touch me not, for I have not yet ascended to the Pleroma. But you, Mary—you have already ascended in spirit. You have seen what the others cannot see.”

And I remembered—

How he had taught not with riddles but with silence.
How he spoke of aeons and archons, of the spark within the prison of flesh, of the false powers who rule with fear and blindness.

“Go to my brothers, and tell them: The son of man has risen from among the counterfeit forms. The path of return is open.”

So I ran—not to prove, but to reveal.

But when I told them what I had seen, Peter said, “How can this be? A woman? A vision? Shall we all be taught by her?”

And I said:

“You judge me by the body, but I have heard with the soul. If the Savior made me worthy, who are you to deny it?”

And Levi said, “If the Savior loved her more than us, it is because she knew him more truly. Let us not turn away the light when it comes in the form we did not expect.”

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She floats above the village streets at night
In search of some forgotten tale of old
Her ghostly form is beautiful and white
Her ghostly tale is one that's often told

Her life became the sorrow of remorse 
Her death became the sorrow all can feel
A ghostly essence runs its ghostly course
A hidden tale the teller can reveal

The teller of her tale this time is me
I saw her in the village where I live
She seemed to know the tale she sought to be
In me she found a teller she could give

Her tale of unrequited love and more
Of life and death, a dark unopened door.

I think the world needs sonnets to survive
Survival is the perfect lyric art
The sonnet form, a heartbeat still alive
The perfect sonnet dwells within the heart

The heart of every poet beats in time
With nature, like a song of subtle love
The love of every sonnet is sublime
Like rains that quench the world from clouds above

The sonnet turns its theme to fit the sound
Of everything the human heart might hear
It finds its voice where every voice is found
It sings to every person, far and near

Survival of the sonnet, on the whole
A metaphor of our collective soul.

The cost of doing nothing is too steep
I guess that means it’s time to “roll up sleeves”
We’ve landed in some shit that’s more than deep
It doesn’t matter what the Trump believes

The “shit” is his election. What the fuck?
How many millions wasted precious votes?
I guess too many like to press their luck
Obtuse to what their orange choice denotes

So, time to scrape up pig shit one more time
A job nobody ever wants to do
But pigs will shit like criminals will crime
And cleaning up will fall to me and you

Democracy requires work that’s tough
Sometimes it stinks, but we are strong enough.

This sonnet is an allusion to the re-election of Donald Trump. It also contains an allusion to a summer job I had as a teenager, shoveling shit out of a pig barn. I still remember the farmer telling me that I was the first kid he’d hired who wasn’t afraid to get in there and scrape the pig shit off the floor. I use the metaphor of “shoveling pig shit” as a reference to anything that may be distasteful, but still needs to be done. I think it works perfectly in this case. For the next four years we need to roll up our sleeves, plug our noses, and wade boot-deep through the shit as we do all we can to clean it up.