Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.
But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire
Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.
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Comments
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I was introduced to this poet by a friend in my local poetry group. A title that takes you to a Sunday morning . The introductory stanza that places you in that frame of mind.Painting the pictures in words could be anywhere in the world in any city or small town. The lines captures the essence of a timeless world.
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Wow, this poem presents many unexpected images. I would have to spend time with this one, but my immediate favorite line is, "That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time/A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme." This could be converted into a haiku of sorts--a first rough draft:
a week of time
self-contained eternity,
sonnet in rain drops.
There are many images and lines that can be played with. Ah, that I were an artist, or that I could write scores! I would have a field day with this poem!
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