Prologue

O My Judges,

So we begin with my apology
Should I antagonize when I decry
Our plural state, through each doxology
That yields discourse from wiser source than I. 

Rebuke me not if portions so displease
Your image of my worth. Nor will I try
To recreate upon some distant breeze
These images on load from wisdom. Why?
The wisdom is not mine, but Socrates’ .  .  .

And Sirach’s text, but one more source I chose.
My humble gratitude for reason gained
While on my quest to learn what heaven knows,
Though still entombed and bodily sustained 
Without God’s nascent gift of mute repose;
In novice form; earth-shackled, bound and chained
In sanctioned servitude to patterned prose.

And Wisdom’s sire, lost in antiquity,
Stand guard upon each offertory phrase!
Contrasted to my own inequity
In measured rhyme reflecting mortal ways,
These visions through your eyes to seem to me 
Like post-exilic light on opaque days.

And last, herein, but  first in theist eyes
That Primate Source does monitor my muses;
Favor my destiny and fraternize,
Paternally, lest wisdom’s light diffuse
To leave some force aloft to hypnotize
With serpent guile and heretic abuse,
God’s handiwork in temporal disguise. 

Impossible to recognize each sage
Who venerates His imprimatur stamp;
Luminous rays recaptured for each stage
Along each journey to Jehovah’s camp.
From birth, beyond infirmities of age,
Each pens a signature by wisdom’s lamp. 

The Curator’s Notes: The poet begins with a formal apology (in the classical sense: a defense or explanation) that frames the entire collection. It’s written in a deliberately archaic, elevated style that echoes both classical philosophy and biblical wisdom literature. Through the prologue, the poet is doing several things simultaneously: Establishing authority while disclaiming it: “I’m just channeling wisdom from greater sources—Socrates, Sirach, God—but also, praying I get it right because I’m fallible” Framing the collection as dangerous: These poems touch on deep truths that could be misused or misunderstood. She’s asking for protection and discernment. Acknowledging mortality: Written by someone who knows she’s dying but hasn’t died yet—”still entombed” in the body, awaiting “mute repose” Invoking multiple traditions: Classical philosophy + Jewish wisdom + Christian theology—she’s synthesizing the great wisdom traditions The judicial tone: “O My Judges” frames this as a trial or formal defense—she’s accounting for herself before readers and God