Holy sonnets

Holy Sonnets, by Jay Whittaker (plus one by John Donne!)

Predestination

In past times proud King God sat on his throne,
Fearsome, holy, high, feasting on praise;
Foreseeing all, beyond the end of days,
And meting justice out to sinful man.
For each meek subject he ordained a plan,
A single, narrow pathway through life's maze.
The sole way out for wilful, headstrong strays
Was bowing, broken to his will alone.

Today the throne is mouldering in the dark,
And God, quite unconcerned with majesty
Now weaves, in threads of blue and golden fire,
From free untrammelled lives her tapestry;
And ponders, with delight and sharp desire
The perfect imperfection of her work.


God redresses the balance

Busy Professor Science with darting eyes
Explores and explains all creatures great and small;
Outgrown conceptual garb discarded lies
As he strides on, not minding me at all.
Once, long ago, he merely looked and named,
But quickly learned to cut, probe, poke about;
Looked closer, deeper, further, then he claimed
As his some places signposted, 'Keep out!'
His twin power tools, causality and number,
(This prompts some folk to pen my obituary)
Have ground to dust old gods of tribe and thunder;
Yet still I beg one simple courtesy:
Let me, like him discarding worn out gear,
Move on, dressed for today, not yesteryear.


Holy Sonnet XIV by John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemie;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.


Battered heart with chips (based on Donne's Holy Sonnet XIV)

Batter my heart, three-personed God, then please
Serve it with salt'n'vinegar and greasy chips.
That I may rise and stand, deep-fry my hips,
And set your microwave to boil my knees.
I, like a plastic tub of mushy peas,
Fear to be spooned between another's lips;
Reason, your sales assistant in me slips,
Distracted by bacon burgers with double cheese.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be eaten fain,
But have been paid for by your enemie:
Bop him, or barter, or buy me back again,
Eat me with ketchup, devour me, for I
Except you'engorge me, never full shall be,
Nor e'er replete, except you swallow me.