Print Gallery (M. C. Escher), Sonnet #478

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My Human Disguise.

To look through windows, that’s my task —

Through pupils, then my eyeglasses,

Then all framed images, unmasked

By fixed or widened apertures

(Bound as eyes are by eyelashes),

But what I see (I’m not quite sure)

Always changes all the same.

Too much is hidden by the frames.

I take what’s there and make sonnets,

An old form, adequate, fishnets

For ideas the images hook,

My own kind of print gallery.

I ask you not to read, but see

What I have written. Then, please, look.

On the Edge (Klee), Sonnet #381

Look now, it’s time to stop screwing around.

A crow’s cracked nails clawing the frozen ground,
His ceaseless caw cacking a frozen sound,
Writing sonnets is no merry-go-round.
Our faces seek us again and again,
But there’s nothing but the sun to explain —
No sun, no poem, no rose, no weather vane.
Forget the sun you can’t see for the rain!
Theorems are no more valid than a list.
A rhyme is a lot like a broken wrist —
Both need to knit up if you want a fist. 
Sonnets are lists of theorems with no gist.
So I think of Paul Klee as my brother.
He draws not one right thing, but another.