Comfort zone

Wish I could have one of those ‘comfort zones’
They talk so much about. A place of ease,
Calm and contentment, where my faithless bones
Would never ache, my mind would never freeze
In terror of the blank page; where I’d walk
The woods, play my guitar, watch freight trains roll,
Ride bikes and horses, drink cold beer and talk
About the deep things stirring in my soul.
In all my years and miles, I’ve never found
That sacred state where I’m in full command
Of how and when, and feel there’s solid ground
Beneath my feet, and everything’s in hand.
Can’t understand why they’d have me believe
Once found, this is a place I’m meant to leave.

 
 

The irony being, of course, that this is yet another Shakespearean sonnet 🙂 Have a fine weekend, everyone. N.

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8 thoughts on “Comfort zone

  1. Ah, the sonneteer at work!
    …A place of ease,
    Calm and contentment, where my faithless bones
    Would never ache, my mind would never freeze
    In terror of the blank page; where I’d walk
    The woods, play my guitar, watch freight trains roll,
    Ride bikes and horses, drink cold beer and talk
    About the deep things stirring in my soul.
    This is poetry at its finest, Nick, where words, to paraphrase Ralph Waldo Emerson, contained within a list, stir the sensitive mind to strong emotions and thoughts that enlighten or bring change in life. The Volta in this sonnet is perfect. Both the tone of the poem and the way meaning is approached turns and that turn ends up in the summarizing couplet in the end. I hope you keep experimenting with verse forms so that I can keep up with and learn something in the practice, but I also hope you churn out a Shakespearean like this.
    The question your sonnet brings into my mind, though, is this? How do we recognize our comfort zone when we have found it? And should we trust it when we suspect that we might be temporarily in it? I just tried a Droighneach. It was the hardest thing I’ve ever tried. Cynthia John accidently got me to try. The truth is, I’m shamed to admit, is that I’ve read it several times since I finished struggling over it. I suspect I’m proud of what a strange form forced me to write. Is struggle the true nature of my comfort zone? If so, my bones are hurting pretty badly today. But walking in the woods, playing a guitar, which I’ve never learned to do–your musical abilities are a great strength–watching freight trains, riding bikes and horses all sound pretty good to me. Calm and contentment is probably not deeply ingrained in my nature.
    As long as I can read a mix of your sonnets, Shakespearean, Petrarchian, Spenserian, I think I’m nearing contentment. Is there a Miltonian form? Did I read about that somewhere once?

    • This was pure fun, Tom; I wrote it in about 10 minutes (which probably shows!) and really enjoyed the feeling of a whole poem growing out of a single, simple idea. And you encourage me, once again. with your observation from Emerson. I’m conscious that I often use lists in my poems, and I’ve always had a secret fear that it’s cheating, or just plain lazy. But if it’s good enough for you and Ralph Waldo, I’ll stick with it! Thanks you as always for your thoughtful and geenrous reponse. N.

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