(the day Wallace Stevens wrote a sonnet at his day job)
Today is Surreptitious Sonnet Day,
feast of St. Wallace in the poets’ church.
Writing on paper, I will not betray
my brief defection to the sharp-eyed search
of bosses and their minions. (I do NOT
trust the blonde secretary on my right).
To tell the truth, a drink would hit the spot
and set a rather dampened Muse alight
with ardor. I’m supposed to do a graph
with curves of loss and profit, but inclined
to draw a smiley face and raise a laugh.
What if the bosses think I’ve lost my mind?
My life is dreary, and a small voice sings,
St. Wallace, raise me up on eagles’ wings.
'Sonnet for the Third of August' have 2 comments
October 4, 2021 @ 12:22 pm Cynthia Erlandson
Both this idea, and it’s execution, are delightful!
October 20, 2021 @ 5:03 pm David W Landrum
Gail: Wonderful poem, very witty. I will always love Stevens for his lines in “Thirteen Ways”: It was evening all afternoon. / It was snowing and it was going to snow.” Now there, I tell myself, is a man who lived in the north. Thanks for the poem.