Thomas Lynch, 'Refusing at Fifty-Two to Write Sonnets'

[duathir.livejournal.com]

Refusing at Fifty-Two to Write Sonnets

It came to him that he could nearly count
How many Octobers he had left to him
In increments of ten or, say, eleven
Thus: sixty-three, seventy-four, eighty-five.
He couldn't see himself at ninety-six—
Humanity's advances notwithstanding
In health-care, self-help, or new-age regimens—
What with his habits and family history,
The end he thought is nearer than you think.

The future, thus confined to its contingencies,
The present moment opens like a gift:
The balding month, the grey week, the blue morning,
The hour's routine, the minute's passing glance—
All seem like godsends now. And what to make of this?
At the end the word that comes to him is Thanks.

by Thomas Lynch

Comments

[veronica-milvus.livejournal.com]

I really like Lynch's work. He does pieces for BBC Radio 4 quite often and they are always thoughtful and worthwhile. He's an undertaker IRL, isn't he?

[ryntha-doghare.livejournal.com]

This is excellent. Subtle but brilliant.

[fflo.livejournal.com]

15 lines. Sweet. :)

[lookfar.livejournal.com]

Beautiful! I just read his other book, meditations on the funeral trade, and enjoyed it very much.