Three Sonnets [by Mitch Sisskind]

Tears of the Intellectuals

Tears of the intellectuals, bitter dew,

Moistening pages of ponderous books

Schmerz of the intellectuals, sad but true,

Bellyaching of the egghead schnooks,

Kvetching, self-loathing anchored deep

In the hearts of intellectuals albeit they know

The galaxies' secrets, and what life forms creep

In brackish saltwater, and how protozoa grow.

Oy, as knowledge expands, oft doth the pain

Of being an intellectual expand apace, because

There's never quite enough money to sustain

A half-decent lifestyle, and there never was.

Yet intellectuals will do what intellectuals do,

Are you an intellectual? Fuck me, I'm one too.

To a Statue

 

Queen Sennuyw of the Middle Kingdom's lore,

Your statue, 4000 years buried in the sand,

Now in the Boston Museum of Fine Arts forevermore;

What an astonishment it is. No restoration is planned.

In life you surely were graceful and serene,

Tall and proud, strolling around in the dunes,

Embodiment of all your rule had come to mean,

Worshipping Khonsu, goddess of the moon.

Now, even in stone, your eyes seem able to see

Far beyond the BMFA, off to where the Nile flows,

Where life and death were an engaging harmony,

Benign circularity, as the Nile's yearly flooding showed.

Sennuyw, enduring queen of the antique land,

Antipode of Ozymandias, carved by an unknown hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Santa Claus in Springtime

I know Santa Claus is in the chimney tonight
But I don't waken startled, or even surprised;
I've learned to accommodate an amorphous fright
That gets more and more morphous, then dies.

I'll have to croak too, of course, or as the Brits say,
Pop off, which is the message when a tooth falls out;
So as your various faculties are slipping away,
Remember the song, better not cry, better not pout,

Because Santa Claus has always been in town.
You didn't want to come here, my good man,
And now, though you want to stay around,
What you want is different from what you can.

Santa Claus knew you on the day you were born.
Best not to stress about it. But you've been warned.

 

Comments

[Kyril Alexander Calsoyas]

Remarkable work Mr. Sisskind, straight from the heart.
A sonnet gift in return, with thanks.

The Eye of the Storm

Serenity on every side bounded,
By wave and wind and struggle surrounded,
Calm water rides in the eye of the storm,
On its journey neither battered nor torn,

A lonely bird flying through howling gales,
Rests its weary heart and body so frail,
Hidden sanctuary, shuddering waves,
Lost bird sleeps in God’s hands, spirit so brave,

With time, the storm’s towering waves dissolve,
No longer its fierce piercing winds revolve,
Now little bird to the sun you must fly,
Wet wings, light feathers, and tears you must dry.

Leave your refuge in the storm’s circling eye,
Take your place with the angels of the sky