Frank Corcoran

irish composer

ONE OF MY TERRIBLE VESUVIO SONNETS NOW COOKING

Why, oh why, a last Vesuvio Sonnet ?
They’re flowing like lava down my mountain-side.
What molten rocks have got inside my bonnet
To want to stanch the flow of words broadside ?

This volcano fever , these pictures of burning woe,
His sea of pitch and bitumen, tephra , ash,
Mr. Dante made into sadism, slow.
He fed it hot to swine that love their mash.

My Catholic world, your Hell is bleak, pure terror.
God’s all-knowing, male . ( He makes no error… )
How reconcile good saints, so meek and mild ?

Vesuvio’s deep with horrors and with anguish.
Its lost souls howl and yowl , forever languish
In brimstone storm, in seismic yawings wild.

Posted under: Humble Hamburg Musings

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