Author: William Cowan

(an English sonnet)

In the crystalline, becalmed air
The thought held its place there
By the picture of large regret,

The sailors’ sorrow, the broken net
That caught not fish the day described
Windswept in that darkening bay.

Now the picture is seen as skill,
A trial, a test of human will
Where brush was placed just so

Until the years have slid away,
Perspective changed, explained to mean
The known unseen: a cloud,

A breeze, the color blue, what holds
A word, and what is true.

The world is on hold.
The axis has been tilted. Day is
slightly less, a blink, a yawn, then gone.

Events go racing by
with the debris of the lost.
That which we hold onto is slipping away.

We grasp at each other
never sure that our own shore
will ever be secure.

It is all part of piecemeal life,
unscripted ’til eternity devours us,
places us just so, amongst the curios.

Here the eternally unequal
continue to hold sway.
Solace comes in knowing

all things pass and grass grows best
with the drying flowers in the marbled hills
of the eternally equal.

Have you crossed serious roads
and not looked back?

Part of your brain sees “destination,”
another part the walking

that “goads” the doing
though lacking directions.

Alone is final,
for then there is no one

to say the pillar of salt
behind could have been you.

with apologies to Padgett Powell

if you could catch a swallow
or swallow a ketch,
which would work for you?

the way language wends its way thru us
is still mysterious & twisted
by “inner” logic unknown

the thought to word movement
is unfathomable. do you search
for the word & no one works at times?

as the “trains go by the screen”
we reach out into the unseen
to create that which you then see inside

There is order in the fragments.
Cups in a late night diner
are melody, stacked chairs the staff.

Chaff comes, goes, we separate
not always wisely. I hold on
too long to the discards, the stones, and rocks.

Rocks, beautiful stones arranged
worn do not feed or satisfy.
I’m down in my cups

amongst the chaff, the wind blows.
The staff has gone home. We rock
back & forth, fragments of a song

God only knows.

Night and there is
rain in the background
hitting all the surfaces

available out of view
an invisible gamelan orchestra
of no one there

playing a song
we cannot follow to
a non-end

Machinery sporadically strums
a counter rhythm waiting
its turn, biding time
with no purpose to propose

The emptying out of all desires,
& all of day’s tasks put aside,
all love’s drama, ephemeral pauses

on the road to where we go alone
means the child and his toys
have turned to stone

When the fog abates,
euphoria is best outgrown

look/hear
before it disappears:

the sump pump dumps
& overflows

the sharp edged wind
slams ’round

like a spoiled child
in an enclosed room

light sparkles off
the shaking leaves

as we leave
observing for work

routine put away
seeing

the attention to detail,
say, in Robert Ryman’s

white canvases and the slowing
down it requires

of you

Making lists
at night to close
the eyes and mind

Street light seems
to blind as
the shades move

in the bind between
Dreams flows
the islands

I will never “see”
to unpack
the list sublime

& at last to
consume this desired,
fading, rapturous time

Everything that is not
gist could be
clutter or

the forest
with the distant
sleigh weaving

a message.
The saxophonist solos
running scales,

changes that reflect,
play on the melody.
It is all relevant.

A complete atmosphere
of meaning
fills the scene.

All supports
what all
you perceive.

Things that bring
Dusk

Dust motes
Collections

Unmade thoughts
Harbingers of stasis

Rolling over tables
In compact stillness

Gather the unseen
Data that compose
Life

Moving
Self-edited incomplete
Just out of grasp.