All posts by srwallace

1. Writer 2. Creator 3. Reader 4.Watcher

An apology:

Make dirty a page of new.
My own design, my own to choose.
I know it’s a sin, it’s a wrong
to do. To bring the past upon a
page so new. There are no
conjunctions, there is no hope
of Christ redeem. There is none
of that when white becomes

There fault is mine, all here
agree clear. The burden
of resurrection is one
that Pontius could understand.

The sin of woman outmatches
sin of man.

Wounds well sutured still
tear in time.

I don’t care to believe this,
the way I am.

But to die, to be true – the
larks of jealous tone colour
my name and actions of all.

To try my triumph,
to fail my past.

To colour anything so darling is
sharpened with my own mouth’s axe.

Contemporary WB Yeats

Where are the current WB Yeats?
To which do they write?
Where are the muses, Maude
and daughter fair?

To those in America under new
orange-rule, the American huns
of an American age – where
are the geese flying when
everywhere is a grave?

I bought you ink;
I thought it prettier than flowers.