His Majesty Receives (William Holbrook Beard), Sonnet #544

He’s demanded they support his habits

Of frothing, striking, biting, and killing.

His followers, all mice, rats and rabbits,

Beg his mercy upon them, his willing

And most abject obedient subjects.

“What?” he soothes them. “I’m only kidding.

Act as you believe, not at my bidding.”

His cringing rodents think he suspects

Some treachery. Their leader, a wild hare,

Steps forward, bowing low, and says, “Please, sire.

We pledge ourselves to your every desire.

For you we would run with our asses bare!”

“Do so! As I am all you’ve ever feared!”

They ate each other when he disappeared.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: My Human Disguise.

Kirkus Review of my book of stories: "The Story of My Universe and other Stories"

THE STORY OF MY UNIVERSE AND OTHER STORIES

BY CHRISTOPHER GUERIN ‧ RELEASE DATE: JULY 26, 2020

This volume of short stories teeters on the edge of plausibility, exploring everything from sinister cults to the coteries of academia.

Seventeen tales are offered in this collection of extremes written by an author who is equally comfortable examining the grisly as he is the demure. The opening story, “Shoot Me,” is one of strange coincidence—a young man accidentally shoots a fellow hunter in the forest only to learn that chance brought them together before. The following story, “Ball,” is a bizarrely intriguing tale about a man who inherits a mysterious sphere from an aging colleague and discovers that it holds wildly entertaining and destructive powers. Meanwhile, “Poet to Poet” is a cautionary tale about the predatory nature of academia. “The Metametamorphosis,” in which a fashion designer awakes to find he has transformed into a beetle, is a thought-provoking rewrite of Kafka’s masterpiece. The collection closes with the title story, which tells of a seemingly ordinary man who comes to the realization that “I murdered someone I didn’t even know.” When approaching Guerin’s writing, it is important for readers to expect the unexpected. Even then, nothing can prepare them for the knockout final sentence the author delivers in “Red,” the tale of a man who stumbles on a cult performing a ritual on a beach. Full of surprises, Guerin’s descriptive approach is refreshingly unconventional: “From this grassy bank wishbone-shaped twigs stuck up like fetishes.” Yet he also has the power to suddenly flip to the remorselessly brutal: “There didn’t seem to be any blood, though my fingers sank in slightly as if the skull had shattered.” The author’s stories are founded on a breadth of literary knowledge. In addition to Kafka, Gogol is a clear influence, even making an appearance as a supposed thief in “Gogol in Paris.” A naïvely pretentious conversation between two students in “Philosophy 000,” the weakest tale here, fails to bestow each character with a satisfyingly unique voice; on occasion, it is difficult to discern who is saying what. But this is a minor distraction in a strong and compelling assemblage that is sure to perturb and astonish in equal measure.

Elegant, impactful writing in a deliciously unnerving collection.

https://www.amazon.com/Story-My-Universe-Other-Stories/dp/1937484815/ref=sr_1_1?dchild=1&keywords=Christopher+Guerin&qid=1608484398&sr=8-1

The Truth Coming Out of the Well (Jean-Léon Gérôme), Sonnet #543

 

Both the truth and its liars are hidden

And will not come forth to speak unbidden

By necessity’s will or convenience,

Unless called for by fakery of sense.

Only at the bottom of a dry well —

Half way, the easy half, from here to Hell —

Where nakedness — dear Truth — shivers and sighs,

Does Emptiness stitch gorgeous clothes of lies.

He emerges to strut in his glory.

Every sentence he spouts is a story.

His opposite, her body cleansed at least,

Climbs out to the reception of a beast.

They beat and rape her, drag her by her hair,

Throw her back into the well, her dark lair.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:

My Human Disguise.

Hope (George Frederic Watts), Sonnet #542

 

The single string of her burst harp

Can play a quavering C-sharp.

She embraces the instrument

Like a lover singing laments,

But hearing no responding tone.

Hope is always on her own.

One star and Jupiter, her chair,

Revolve in incandescent air.

She’s worn a tightly-wound blindfold

Since she was only two years old.

And she must seek a life in this

Emptiness and paralysis?

Yes. That is what hope signifies.

Creation of a song from sighs.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: My Human Disguise. 

Valley of Aosta: Snowstorm, Avalanche and Thunderstorm (J.M.W. Turner), Sonnet #541

 

An avalanche exists in the abstract,

A violent snow and ice cataract,

Content without shape, without content,

A proliferation of the absent.

A blizzard wipes the air empty and white

And confuses real things with closed-eye night.

(Formlessness is a natural order,

An extremity without a border.)

The thunderstorm exposes the mountain

With splintering intensity; fountains

Of light define the crag, the slope, the tree —

Revealing only momentarily.

These words (also abstract) erase all forms

From the blankest page — revealing more storms.

With thanks to Jeff Strayer for the Turner suggestion.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: My Human Disguise.

Wedding (Marc Chagall), Sonnet #540

 

For Ruth

We couldn’t foretell the future.

Who can? But with hope, trust, desire

On the wedding day, we made pure,

Our breasts pressed, blanketing with fire.

Outside a blizzard blocked the streets

And dazzled the windows light white.

Later, later, we heard the night,

Unafraid, as we stretched smooth sheets.

Forty-three years and nothing’s changed —

Not between us, not you, not me.

Newness, like children, we arranged.

We held them, then we set them free.

My love, I hold you in my arms,

Our kisses silence all alarms.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here:

My Human Disguise.

Casting (Winslow Homer), Sonnet #539

 

When I cast the world disappears —

The rod, the reel, the line, the fly,

And the river cease to exist.

Even disappearance clears,

Leaving only motion. I try

To reach beyond the blazing mist.

The trout are only a waiting,

Still beneath endless cataracts,

Oblivious of my baiting.

Sand and pebbles stipple their backs.

When I leave with an empty creel,

I’m empty too, my wrist is sore.

Though I again begin to feel,

There is nothing lost to restore.

My book of the first 200 of these sonnets is now available for purchase. Click here: My Human Disguise.