Tenebrae by Geoffrey Hill, 44 pages
These poems were written in the darkness between the snuffing of the last candle and the promised but as yet unseen dawn.
I founder in desire for things unfound.
I stay amid the things that will not stay.
The silence is filled with a waiting Presence that compels, conquers, commands, His throne darkness in the abyss of light.
Christ the deceiver
took all I had
his darkness ever
my fair reward
There are many excellent reasons to turn away towards the desert of the world.
He wounds with ecstasy. All
the wounds are his own.
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