Tuesday, February 26, 2019

Brex

England can't leave Europe. It just can't.
No matter all the tantrums it may throw.
It's stationary as a potted plant
That might desire,  but cannot move to go.
It may dissolve the legal ties between
The Continent (and Ireland) and it
But do recall it cannot flee the scene
Despite its protests in its current snit.
Its neighbours are its neighbours, come what may;
A plant cannot uproot itself and walk.
And so no matter what the Leavers say
Ultimately it must be all talk:
That doesn't mean it could not be the worst--
A plant uprooted tends to die of thirst.

Warship

On Friday nights, we join as one to pray,
To wish the world would be a better place
And as we do, we constantly retrace
The wishes of a distant yesterday.
We pray in words that we have learned to say
By rote, hoping that eternal grace
Forgives the syllables we will misplace
Hearing our hearts, and what we would convey.
And as we do it, we cannot forget
There is an officer next to the door
Protecting us from those we have not met
Who pray themselves that we should pray no more.
We lock our doors, to my profound regret:
The space of peace should not be rigged for war.

Paradise Regained

Though Milton, sexist, claims that Eden's state
Was one in which the woman newly made
By nature was devised subordinate
To man, and thus supposed a lesser grade
Of human, made (as often quoted) not
For God direct, as Adam was intended
But merely God-in-him, as if her thought
Were fully secondary. This is mended
If we recall (as Milton often would)
We do not live in Eden anymore
But in a new and fallen world, and good
And evil both are changed. I ask, therefore
If in this fallen world, knowledge increased
The time of sexism has finally ceased.

Wednesday, February 20, 2019

Walks

The ice is slick beneath my feet
Except where it is topped with snow
But as I stumble up the street
I find, I think, I like it so;
I like the moment ere I fall
When time slows down and focuses
When I can catch myself or sprawl
Among the deadened crocuses
I like the opportunity
To let the dog pull at my arm
And if she should outmuscle me
Expose myself to sudden harm
But cushioned by the snow, to feel
The danger is not fully real.

Tuesday, February 19, 2019

Float

To write a sonnet is a curious thing.
It once was merely fashion--de riguer--
To take a little room, and make it sing.
But now it smacks of heresy: impure,
Reactionary, even. Yet the form
Is still the same; the words (with some exceptions)
Remain unaltered. It is but the norm
That has abandoned me for new directions
Preferring something smacking less of craft,
With fewer rules (or less explicit ones).
For me, the sonnet is a little raft
To float across the depthless sound that runs
Between the banks of what I feel and say--
I cannot cross it any other way.

Whyfor

Were I to say the reason I am here
I would, I think, by now belie us both;
Not least because, although I'd be sincere,
I could no longer swear an honest oath
To say the reason has remained the same.
And yet because it motivated you
(At least, I think it did when first we came)
Its fundamental part must still be true
Since actions in the past retain their truth
And are not altered by the future's change--
Thus what we said, and meant, back in our youth
Time's violence cannot quite rearrange.
But nonetheless, each moment we remain
The answer changes, and will change again.

Monday, February 18, 2019

Tether

I think I know a way to be
Except I always get it wrong;
I live my life and hum along
Until I strike insanity
And then it all comes back to me
Like the lyrics of a song
Half-forgot until some strong
Occasion jogs my memory.
Then I recall how to devour
Each moment as it passes by
And live each day in joy and hope--
But then the passing of an hour
Relaxes me, and, sighing, I
Let go my hold upon the rope.

Sunday, February 17, 2019

Nostalgia

I miss some cities I have lived in more;
I hunger for them, long to walk their streets,
Hop on a subway, hike the urban core,
Enter the suburbs where the city meets
Its end, see all that I have seen before;
Yet there are those whose various retreats
I have no need to once again explore,
Nor any urge to sample those old treats.
What is the difference between these two?
How can I tell which cities I prefer?
I much prefer to show them off to you,
That you may see them as I knew they were
But notice them yourself as something new--
The others are an insubstantial blur.