Fire
Imagine that first fire, the doubletakes
Among the vegans, cold, dark, wet: Cave guy
Strikes flint and, boom, you're grilling mammoth steaks,
You're holding hands, you're hooking up, you're dry,
And (years of R&D) it catches on,
Brick ovens, candlelight, of course appalling
Losses, but still, fondue, filet mignon,
And the three-alarm, fanned fire of your first calling
Until there's no more call for you, you box
Up your life's work, archive the ardencies,
The once hot, test-tube topics, and retire
To country climes, keeping an eye on the phlox
In your old field, avuncular now, at peace
With not quite having set the world
on fire.
I admired this poem for its brash humor, its wit,
and its breezy tone, as if the sonnet were simply
an unintimidating poetic form—a suggestion,
a gesture. No dearth of puns here.
But then it swivels on that amazing, buried
volta of “your” and begins its movement
toward seriousness. It catches one off-guard,
for which one is oddly grateful. Comedy that
turns and bites is a time-tested strategy,
and this sonnet employs it nicely.
|