David Hunter Sutherland
David Hunter Sutherland’s work has seen wide distribution in journals, reviews and
magazines. His pieces of his have appeared in The Hollins
Critic, Anthology, The Fairfield Review and Crossconnects. Sutherland serves as
editor for a publication called Recursive Angel. Sutherland has published a recent
collection of verse called Between Absolutes
available by Menace Publishing of Alexandria, VA.
Mr. Sutherland is a member of The Academy Of American Poets, South African Writers Committee (SAWC), and The Oxford Poetry Society.
Heart Of The Fugue (back to the top)
Her literary omissions hide
in moist handkerchiefs
and breath that sighs intimation
of an idle pride.
And how deft she habits the scene
of a chateau or chalet,
pursing between fingers
a ring a key a note that repeats
its line of reticent raptures
then flits on nimble strings.
And so like a rogue to fix
one takes to the heart of her fugue,
caught beneath brooch and pin
lodged in unrequited chords
of ascetic decadence, for her
not the arduous ballet
of formalized vagaries,
not the stately minuet
winding its beeline to disaster,
but the blue art of an etude,
overtures encircling vibrant rondos
careen madly around and about
her lips her hands her heart.
Deus Ex Machina (back to the top)
“I am alive; I seem to keep on living.”
- Virgil, The Aeneid, Book III
Under extraordinary agent,
_deus ex machina_,
by some fortuitous course of atoms,
_fortuito quodam concursu atomorum;_
in part, bread and circus games,
_partim, panem et circenses._
The roar of ocean, the song of worlds,
the voice of stars, immense in their excellence . . .
In kind we belong,
as the sun shined for all, you,
_lumen soli mutuum das,_
are lending its light
Flourishing (at a time)
before this earthiness ends
_non semper Saturnalia erunt_
ends its trifles with tears.
_Sunt lacrimae rerum,_
for there are tears for things,
for temporal things
And as much spirit
blind to its product of mind,
fears the hole in its eye,
embodies the world as a face,
falls to earth, a moment
in reflection, a moment,
in disguise, we too appear
perpetually in motion.
Read other poems by David Hunter Sutherland in the magazine Rhapsody