Reading The Book: Ten New Sonnets by Gary Bills

 

READING THE BOOK: TEN NEW SONNETS  

 

 

 

NEWS FROM EDEN  

  

After the big kerfuffle, at that tree: 

When blushing Eve was frantic for a leaf 

And Adam gave a shrug for what must be, 

The Lord revealed His gate to Fool and Thief. 

The tree fell then - the fruit, the bud, the bloom 

Were gathered into silence, grove on grove  

Denied forever rustling afternoons, 

Though voyeuristic angels sighed for love; 

And there, the mountain thrush still studies time, 

Which is a granite rock by Eden’s streams – 

One peck could end this world…an aeon chimes 

Inside God’s bell, for quietude and dreams. 

Don’t hold your breath and count. We are not there: 

No need for striking clocks to shudder air.

 

 

 
 

GIRL WITH A PEARL EARRING 

  

Two hours each day, away from pots and pans, 

the girl has subtle thoughts, and none to harm 

the order of his household: calloused hands,    

fake pearl, faux princess - veritable charm. 

His daughter’s age – she’s pretty for a maid, 

with parting lips and fresh, mistrustful eyes. 

She's flattered by his brushstrokes: half afraid 

he’ll show the truth, as distant music lies:    

pert virginals beyond the studded doors 

and melodies for hours of grace and light; 

but counterpoint brings spider steps - which pause, 

and Man and Angel wrestle through the night. 

She stretches, curtsies – leaves before he speaks… 

At dusk, outside her room, a floorboard creaks. 

 

 

 

 

DEATH OF A HERETIC 

 

All night, above my cell, the sly priests howl 

to make me think on Hell - my Hell tomorrow, 

when devils of the pincer and cowl 

will rip my flesh apart, in prayerful sorrow - 

that I might see God's love and so repent 

before my head is severed from my trunk; 

shall I be spared my pains if I relent, 

beyond those artful demons, rolling drunk? 

(If sober, any mind might start and turn, 

revolted by the blood and funeral drum 

one cut or two before my hacked limbs burn, 

before my head is lifted to the sun.) 

I've harmed no soul with wise though subtle words: 

the Church is just a tree of squabbling birds. 

 

 

 

 

A BOOK OF MARTYRS 

 

No magician’s trick, no doctor’s cure - 

Saint Simon sawn in twain, while on his cross, 

And fond Saint Agnes - dying to be pure, 

Too young to change her mind or sense her loss; 

Saint Lawrence on his grill, (with both sides done) 

The patron saint of barbecues, perhaps; 

All saw their angels, where the rest saw none, 

Such visions in extremis helped them last - 

Enough to give the crowds a decent show;  

Here’s Saint Eulalia, tortured thirteen ways:  

She dies, at last, a halo on her brow; 

Saint Jean de Brébeuf, eaten raw for days…  

Forgive this smile – no soul should mock such pain; 

God watched them die - if not, they died in vain. 

 

 

 

 

HISTORY LESSONS 

 

Those perfect sets of England from the train, 

squat Norman towers of churches clothed in trees 

then open fields that bring a blast of rain 

with kitten scratches, smeared by speed and breeze, 

each moment turning quickly like a page 

you'll never get to finish to the end, 

but what is seen is loved - a flickered stage: 

the now, the past, the future seem to blend 

towards a sense of what the landscape meant, 

of what the landscape means - to where it leads: 

a fable with illuminated scenes, 

a tome of Grace with many evil deeds. 

For good or ill, I cannot help but look, 

and no one tells me how to read this book.

 

 

 

“THE BEGGAR KING BE MAD AGAINE…” 

 

When souls grow vile for pennies, honour's done - 

I begged for food; you gave my cap a frown, 

And nothing's fair beneath the yawning sun; 

My angel said, You wear a sacred crown. 

But chances were the wits I could not find 

And charity was a curse in every town, 

And while I raved, the devil took my mind; 

But Gadreel said, You wear a sacred crown. 

My maps were leaves, my paths were only cruel, 

To test the comic grimace of a clown - 

Beneath respect, and labelled for a fool; 

My angel said, You wear a sacred crown - 

But I am hurt by traitors, day by day, 

And I have found no castles on my way. 

 

 

 

 

EFFIGY MEN 

 

Here they sleep, the benevolent elite, 

in decomposing splendour and in lead, 

while amorous cherubs, carved with pudgy feet, 

are canopied above them - saved instead; 

but art supports the mythos of a life, 

becomes the signal statement over death, 

and though we end the same, the drum and fife 

speak just for cavaliers lacking breath: 

and plane and chisel gave them half a chance, 

through vatic art, to linger for a while; 

their effigies do maintain the staring trance, 

impressing us through artifice and guile. 

Which sub-creator would not let them die? 

Those smiling Lords still move us where they lie.

 

  

 

 

VIGIL 
 

Autumn was our season. Winter came, 

to frost the diamond windows of our room; 

we missed the ebbs of warmth - but all the same, 

we never missed the prospects of a tomb: 

such was our attic vigil - moth and rust 

and barely what we knew – more shade than sun, 

and often, we were merely motes of dust; 

and yet, we bless the bell when children run 

to hear the Brothers teach the life of Christ 

(most mornings, at their school in Pilgrims' Lane) 

and through the darkest nights, we keep our tryst, 

a baleful tryst, - this land is not the same... 

and yet, a keening spell might do some good 

and bring a sprig of blossom to your wood. 

 

 

 

 

NOTHING ON THE NIGHT WIND 

   

A butterfly in autumn flies in summer – 

its season for a day, there’s nothing else 

in late October – bless the peacock’s shimmer, 

scarlet over shadows of itself      

where fallen leaves are hearts or hands entwined 

and twigs are left to spidered wreaths of light; 

let’s say dead leaves are flowers for the mind, 

now straggler roses fade by hours of blight; 
let’s say those amber glances through the park 

have charms enough to turn the dying year - 

our breaths will not be blooming through the dark 

and nothing on the night wind speaks of fear - 

the glow’s enough to warm a peacock’s wing, 

as children quit their rides and dream of spring.  

 

 

 

 

MANIFEST DESTINIES 

 

In tumults of grand prophecies and war, 

With futures glimpsed in glass or polished stone, 

When nations crave what other tribes abhor, 

Oh, let there be a plan, to stand alone, 

And not the reeling smoke from bonfired hate, 

Nor those dark clouds which bring the tempest's spite - 

The final wave, which bursts the castle gate, 

Nor evil stars which curse the solemn night. 

With many Magi lost in hostile zones, 

Still nodding to the camel's knowing plod, 

With writings thrown on writings - sticks on bones,  

Too many claim they've seen the will of God, 

Or else they shuffle laws - bamboozling Man; 

For all this - Ah! – please, let there be a plan...

Gary Bills was born at Wordsley, near Stourbridge. He took his first degree at Durham University, where he studied English, and he has subsequently worked as a journalist. He is fiction editor for Poetry on the Lake.

Gary gained his MA in Creative Writing at BCU, with a distinction.

He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his post-modernist epic poem, “Bredbeddle's Well”, which was published in Lothlorien in 2022, and he has been nominated for the Best of the Net awards, for his short story, “Country Burr”.

Gary's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian, Magma, HQ and Acumen, and he has had three full collections published, – “The Echo and the Breath” (Peterloo Poets, 2001); “The Ridiculous Nests of the Heart” (bluechrome, 2003); and “Laws for Honey” (erbacce 2020). In 2005, he edited “The Review of Contemporary Poetry”, for bluechrome.

His work has been translated in to German, Romanian and Italian. A US-based indie publisher, The Little French, published his first novel, “A Letter for Alice” in 2019, and a collection of stories, “Bizarre Fables”, in 2021. His second novel, "Sleep not my Wanton", came out in January 2022, and it is due out shortly as a Spanish language version.