Sublime

“Whatever is fitted in any sort to excite the ideas of pain, and danger, that is to say, whatever is in any sort terrible, or is conversant about terrible objects, or operates in a manner analogous to terror, is a source of the sublime; that is, it is productive of the strongest emotion which the mind is capable of feeling.” – Edmund Burke (1729-1797).
 
That which killed the cat is, 
for us, essential. 
desire for novelty. 
Yet, before Death comes,  
do we take less pleasure 
in four seasons, repeating, 
than in three hundred and twenty? 
 
My tooth aches and you strike me with a hammer 
just as that great gooseberry Ivan warned, 
once he’d finished swimming, 
chopping circles round the tranquil pond 
and blowing  
horrible shadowblack rings  
of dirty pipesmoke 
 

But then you claw out the offending fang 
and lay the weapon down 
and delight flows through me 
You offer up a cup of wine 
and pleasure runs in blood. 
 
We drink until the cellar is 
a mausoleum 
a sealed crypt of pleasing woe 
with idle bottles strewn as corpses 
and amongst them we lie 
indifferent, disappointed, grieving. 
 
The sickness claws 
as the air runs out 
I take comfort in the beauty of your eyes 
Light pools that sparkle above an infinite depth 
 
But Death stands here vast 
O King of Terrors 
All gaze, all wonder!