Concerning Grace
(Two Sonnets, with an Optional Epilogue)
I.
So here's the one whose time has almost gone
who plays in ashes wishing they were fire
who plays with leaving, wishing to linger on
who never knows a quickening desire
except to rue that sunset follows dawn,
(sleepless, the dark brings out a red hot wire)
where all night's horses trample Hyperion
where every hope is gutted for a lyre.
Grace would be a welcome thing to save
as a thousand mouths split open at their seams,
all bored but quite unable to stop the screech.
Grace here would be a welcome thing to have,
dividing dark from light in separate dreams---
but grace is grey and dancing out of reach.
II.
All things have a radiance at the start
when life is burning like a star that falls
when passion is a door that swings ajar
to a room that never was a room at all.
But I am a thing whose time is almost done
a seed that shattered back on the recoil
that spent its force in cracking mountain stone
put down its root in dead indifferent soil
thinking it could color and unfold
like Eos blooms her brother's fiery ball
from horizon to horizon, red to gold,
its petals scented jasmine as they'd fall.
Life yields a withered stalk, but gives me grace
to die and leave some richness in my place.
~July 2015
Process note: In Greek myth, Hyperion is the Titan of light, father of Helios, the sun, Selene, the moon, and Eos, the dawn.
Weekend Challenge: Goodness Gracious
Karin Gustafson (ManicdDaily) asks us to say grace, or at least to speak of it, think of it, and perhaps even write a poem about it. I have chosen to do a couple of sonnets, as grace seems a topic suitable to such. (The first is Sicilian, the second, Shakespearean, hopefully.)
And for STRICTLY OPTIONAL reading for those who prefer free verse, or who are gluttons for punishment, to complete the theme of 'Three Graces,' I include as an Epilogue my egregiously long, semi-free verse, fragmented pre-poem these sonnets came from (*definitely* a draft!) below:
Epilogue: Broken Notes on Grace
A thing whose time is almost gone
must look for grace to stop its lingering on;
each moment spent within that lingering
groping for the finick'd forgotten fingering
mocks the spark it once knew how to burn
in ashes of what's gone and all in vain,
for that will never give its light again.
~*~
Grace eludes in this clamoring dream
where a thousand mouths split open their seams
bored but unable to stop their screech
as it dances by, out of their reach.
~*~
All things have a beginning
when they are radiant
when for a moment
they are potent
when grace falls open
like a well thumbed book
to the favorite mark
when grace is a door
without a handle
without a hook
that opens to
no room at all.
But I am a thing
whose time is done,
spent seed that once blew
too dry and far, that
spent all its force
to crack the stone
put down its root in poisoned soil
thinking still it might somehow unfold
instead grew spindly, twisted,
finally cold.
Now in the time of withering
I look for grace
to untie each starveling leaf
and let it fall--
some richness for this tight atomic dust
before the coming winter takes it all.
Images: The Three Graces, 16th Century, by Corregio
Winter Sunflower, copyright 2014 joyannjones
