Draft #2 (two sonnets)
(1)
Restful abstraction slides through me as if
I was Jack Frost with too many pretty
panes to remember or like God (maybe),
who sets us all swimming in love that is
unconditional, then is still until
we knock (or some one or thing knocks for us).
Lately I notice I have themes—that themes
have me in their grip—and I travel these
(repeatedly) without needing to rest.
Dreaming I drive to work (just as I drove
for years), praying along with sunrise and
for years), praying along with sunrise and
traffic, pulling into my parking space
ready and remembering nothing—not
what I saw or said or saved myself from.
ready and remembering nothing—not
what I saw or said or saved myself from.
(2)
Someone
or something must be knocking for
me,
as I did for past students, actors,
and
committee members! My classes rushed
by
(though students’ time still lagged); my
focused
stage characters moved in trance; rehearsals
took my voice flow from above; committees
gathered
my spirit with others to tasks,
concerns,
business, and a sense of us.
Like
magic, absence and abstraction hold
creation
in comfort. I—who, after
birth,
feared oblivion—swim instead in
love,
feed instead on multiplying fish,
and
cast my line to stock as many poems
as
I wish to welcome guests in my home.
 |
| Frost on Window, Wikimedia Commons |
Draft #1 (one sonnet)
A restful oblivion slides through me
as if I was Jack Frost with too many
panes to remember or like God (maybe),
who sets us all swimming in love that is
unconditional, then is still until
we knock (or some one or thing knocks for us).
Later I notice I have themes—that themes
have me in their grip—and I travel these
(repeatedly) without needing to rest.
I drive to work again (just as I did
for years), praying along with sunrise and
for years), praying along with sunrise and
traffic, pulling into my parking space
ready and remembering nothing—not
what I saw or said or saved myself from.
ready and remembering nothing—not
what I saw or said or saved myself from.
Copyright © 2013 S.L.Chast