Sonnet
I write, yet what I write, none reads or scans
My daily blogs fall lifeless to the floor:
My motto is ironic: triumpans
in gold upon a locked and bolted door;
Like Sisyphus I heave my heart upstairs
but keep my mouth shut tight against the wind
After long hours’ dictation lie like prayers
or birds, the pages waiting to be binned:
Ars longa, vita what? How does this rule
measure me up? What do I make of me?
By living longer must I seem a fool?
Where is the blueprint that I’m supposed to be?
Look there: against the West the sun is rising
We will run backwards yet – and end surprising.
A bit self-consciously literary, I thought – yet it started me off today, when I couldn’t think of a word to write. It is an homage to John Clare’s poem
www.theotherpages.org/poems/clare01.html
I wrote a parody of this, which began
I write, yet what I write, none reads or scours
For my friends’ sake I suffer memory loss…
A bit contrived, but fun all the same.
Pip Pip!
(If you’re looking for the “letters to Leonard”, I’ve taken them off. Far too embarrassing, now that I’ve come back down to earth.)
Sarada Gray 