Self-examination:
a sonnet trilogy
If you should meditate upon yourself
To know more clearly who and what you are,
You might discover that you are an elf,
A ukelele, not a bass guitar;
That when your core becomes a fire, its fizz,
Is like those birthday candles that make sparks
Instead of flame: It’s no conflagration that is
You, but only a sub-flame; that you’re the barks
From hunting dogs and not the noble beast
They chase; that you’re not Sherlock Holmes—at best
You’re ho-hum Dr. Watson. Then at least
You’ll know not to pretend you’re Everest.
Or . . . if you are a foothill, you can seek
A few uplifting visions of the peak.
0
You might take on detective work like this
Anyhow. After all, who else can do
It? You’re the only person knowing this
And that concealed iniquity and clue
In incantation of your history,
And you alone are likeliest to know
The black and scarlet clumps of mystery
Disfiguring the lowest of the low
Abysms in your heart. These pointers lurk
Beneath the data anyone can see;
These are the things that show that you’re a jerk
Or worse—a boring mediocrity.
And you alone know in your darkest mine
That Gods and Devils keep their dual shrine.
0
Looking in a psychoanalytic
Mirror, you exorcise your deepest mind
Of toxic shadows and anthracitic
Poisons. Indeed, unless you’re quite, quite blind,
You might be able to interrogate
Your face. If other people read it well
And gauge your various moods and thinking straight
From it, then no shrink needs to help you smell
Out basic truths about your id. Just ask
Your facial indications to inform
Your brain and psyche, no high fee. Don’t mask
The insights anymore. You can transform
Your self-perceptions, no financial ouch.
You need a mirror only, not a couch.