XLIX

Don May 22nd, 2009

XLIX Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.” 

            The poem in entry XLVII stood alone at first; but as often happens with me, it soon begat companions that coalesced to form a larger group.    Terza Rima is the form Dante used in The Divine Comedy.  The lines come in triplets rhyming ABA BCB CDC, etc., until all ends in a couplet. 

 THREE ESSAYS IN TERZA RIMA I:  In Anticipation of Autumn 

Luxuriant, green-growth leaves that tower tall

Above our heads to form a mighty ceiling

Are surely destined down to die and fall,

 

The bare, left-lifeless, lifted limbs revealing

That bore them up until the fatal voice

Of Frost should come and whisper softly, sealing

 

Their fate.  They choose (and yet they have no choice)

To go a wandering, homeless vagabonds,

Seeking for a reason to rejoice

 

More than they had when, high, in soft green fronds,

The formed a restful, rustling canopy

To filter sunlight into summer ponds.

 

And I wonder why men (and I am one) must be

So like the leaves they see on every tree.

 II:  Natural Revelation 

The swooping, darting, soar-song flock of birds

That swift across the sunset takes its flight

Says something that cannot be said by words.

 

The piercing of the Stars through deepening night

Takes up the same theme, each in perfect time’

And in a burning pitch to match its height.

 

The Moon on wings of the same song doth climb

And wax and wane and never miss a turn

To treat the clouds like words that poets rhyme.

 

And just before the Dawn begins to burn

A hole in the dark tapestry of Night

And light dew-jewels on cobweb, leaf, and fern,

 

A distant, glowing, cabin-window light

Speaks of shelter, breakfast, warmth, and peace,

A circle of love formed firm against the Night

 

To join the birds, Stars, Moon, Dawn in the East,

And sing the self-same song.  Oh, seek to grasp,

For seek to grasp we must, and never cease,

 

These will-o-the-wisp, elusive notes that pass

Through restless minds like soft winds through the grass

 III:  The Pulley 

George Herbert tells us that You withheld Rest,

Of all the blessings that You gave to Man,

So that we might be tossed unto your breast

 

And not be satisfied with aught less than

That supreme Good for which we all were made.

And I confess, that seems to have been Your plan

 

In dealing with men like me, so apt to trade

The greater for the lesser good and lose

Both in the process as we watch them fade.

 

For whether paths of planets I peruse,

Or watch the wandering of the Autumn leaves,

Or see the sunset or sunrise’s hues,

 

That age-old wandering impulse I receive

To leave behind old Earth’s confining ring

And find the lasting Good we can’t conceive.

 

It is not of themselves that the spheres sing,

But of the One who wrote their melody.

It is the Truth, the Life; it is the thing

 

Some hide from, some pursue, and some few see:

Our hearts are restless ‘til they rest in Thee.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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