Holy week

It’s here!

Today starts Holy Week, and it’s usually a wonder/full but draining experience. Already, I haven’t been posting at my usual rate. (I’ve been devouring early Myrna Loy performances…and there’s not a lot to say about many of those movies except, “They did not feel comfortable with sound quite yet!”) So, this is fair warning that I have no idea what the ensuing week will bring, especially as regards this space. 

I try very hard to keep this site focused on artistic criticism, and that means not using it to post my creative or theological writing. But, just in case you don’t hear from me this week, please accept this sonnet as a consolation prize.

The Ash That Makes the Lilies Grow

I lent, that Lent, on a crutch too tightly clutched.
I knew the new was coming, clocked the clock.
And though I knelt each knell, my tears were touched
With visions of the Riven’s risen shock.

I faster’d Easter, fastened on the feast.
Each breach in those reaching features was lit
With Sunday’s sun, and Saturday—mute beast—
Was no day, at least as I could fit.

And since I did not learn the ‘lent’ in ‘silent,’
The fulsome praise I filled the days with fell some.
Perusing pews, I wondered at what went:
A flame from pain to make my claim seem numb.

If I had wept, forfending endless dark,
My drier state could greater sate his spark.

© 2026, Brett Alan Dewing. All rights reserved.