Sonnettics

The symbols in St. Petersburg are vast
Although the Neva’s short, it’s deep and wide
The city used to flood in days gone past
But now, it stands against the Baltic’s tide
Though flowing time engulfs a different fear
It floods the streets with symbols of the day
They may not be the icons we revere
But icons of life’s water have a way
Of shifting like the currents of the sea
While fleets of people drift upon their waves
Perhaps they show a different depth to me
Although we all sail on to shallow graves
They may be pretty boxes, but they’re tombs
The moisture of St. Petersburg consumes.

The halo of the Seraph shines; it’s round
A perfect circle, symbolizing grace
Two wings to fly and two safeguard his feet
Another two conceal his holy face
The Burning One, Prometheus released
From Heaven, where Zeus hid him from all men
But Gods cannot confine this fiery beast
And free of chains, he flies to earth again
There’s power in his halo and his wings
Angelic in demeanor, he commands
An Army of protection, which he brings
To battle hell, whenever it expands
He flies his grace to men, a holy light
But keeps his face and feet from evil’s sight.

I saw St. George on many different walls
The galleries of icons showed his deed
He strikes the evil dragon and it falls!
Symbolically, I understand the need
To kill the dragon, spear it in its mouth
The mouth produces evil words and flame
St. George destroyed the dragon from the South
Of Russia, namely Batu Khan, by name
But Mongols weren’t the only evil things
That threatened Russia; think of Reagan’s jest
Unwittingly, he used a phrase that stings
St. George turned his attention to the West
From South or West, all dragons must be slain
St. George, iconic hero, will remain!

I wonder if his desk could feel his pen
As keenly as I feel his spirit here
We’re kindred spirits: writers, worldly men
I feel his spirit now; I feel him near
He gave the sick their health; he gave it free
He understood the calling which he chose
But Dr. Chekhov knew what he could be
He wrote as well, like one who surely knows
The sickness in his body took its toll
But not from Dr. Chekhov’s written art
His fame today was surely not his goal
But fame will come regardless of our part
His desk, his pen, his words remain today
It must be here that Chekov wants to stay.

This Moscow of dichotomies appears
Before this weary traveler can sleep
She’s welcomed and repelled the world for years
The rivers of her history are deep
The Muscovites are builders, and they’re good!
They’re artists too; it shows in all they build
With gold and glass, with brick and even wood
There’s pride within her architectural guild
And yet, it’s more than buildings they design
Their poetry and prayers possess the halls
Of every building, built with grace, divine
Be still, and listen how her spirit calls
This Moscow bids this weary man to write
And so I’ll sleep tomorrow, not tonight!