My first entry in some time, I realize. Lent was, in some ways, more a time of incompletion than completion. Exemplified, perhaps, by this piece. The first octet was written during Lent. When I came to the end, however, I wasn't sure how I wanted to finish it. The final two lines that I had were: "At times it seems too hard to run the race / When all the laurelled ones are watching you." bit I wasn't sure how to arrive there, so I ended up abandoning it. Plus, having written so many self-pitying poems already that Lent, I was unsatisfied with the final sentiment.
So then yesterday morning (or two days ago, very late at night), I got a sextet. Upon searching for a piece of paper to write it down, I wrote it upon the same sheet as the aforementioned octet. I then realized that the sextet actually completed the previous octet in a way that was currently satisfying to me. It's strange because I don't usually leave things unwritten. Or at least, I don't usually go back to fragments. I don't usually find them meaningful except on the night that they are created and subsequently abandoned (My inability to revise or revisit works being the core of my failure to produce any work of length). So this is a little bit of a novelty, and the two pieces may hang a little tenuously.
As it stands, however, I am simply glad to have completed it. Unfortunately, I didn't date the paper for the first segment, and I feel that the date for the second segment doesn't really convey when the entire piece was written, or the fact that it took shape over time. Perhaps the length of time between the segments, or its significance, are lost on the casual reader. Oh well. In form, it is an entirely typical sonnet for me.
"... And run this race as if I ran to you." -4/18/09 & Previous
Of all the rose, Saint Francis loved the thorns
But shower me with petals all the day.
When Moses spoke with God, he left with horns
But, though I speak, unchanged I walk away.
And Peter was instructed by his Lord
That Romans would direct him what to wear
Then lead him to the wages of his Word,
A prophecy which I could never bear.
I live in such an ordinary day-
to-day, and run at such a staggered pace
that, soon as I commence, collapse, am through.
I know I need to find a diff'rent way,
This stop-and-go's no way to run a race,
I need to set my eyes on something true...
"... Coming, coming home."
-L
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