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On Becoming Real These sonnets, written this summer

and fall, are my response to my friend Bob

Sessions’s Becoming Real: Authenticity in an

Age of Distractions, a book that has changed

the way I live my life.

After reading and rereading the book, I

see these as the keys to becoming real: spend-

ing time in the natural world, valuing commu-

nity, listening for my callings, welcoming spir-

ituality, cherishing peak experiences “in the

zone,” and feeling gratitude. I have tried to

assimilate these activities and attitudes more

fully in my life. Doing so has made me broad-

er, deeper, and happier. My thanks to Bob.

I won’t say more about the sonnets

than this: they might be read as an uncom-

pleted journey from distraction to authentici-

ty.

TZ Ann Arbor

October 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Tom Zimmerman

Photographs and pamphlet design by Tom Zimmerman on a Dell computer using Microsoft

Publisher and photo-editing software. Fonts used are Berlin Sans FB Demi and Calibri.

zetataurus press ann arbor mi zetataurus@comcast.net

On Becoming

Real Six Sonnets

Tom Zimmerman Washtenaw Community College

Ann Arbor, MI

Author Meets Critics: Perspectives on Robert Sessions’ Becoming Real

CCHA Central Division Conference Iowa City, IA October 11-13, 2012

Mississippi I’m rolling on and on, the river’s slow, three states in sight, the smell of fish, of mud, the taste of salt, wildflowers in my blood. I used to fear the water. Oh, not now. Lots under here. The blackest beast, of course, is all I need. The time will come—I hope I’ll know—when I’ll be torn to pieces, then put back together whole, with duct tape, rope, the plants and herbs I’ll newly know, like gorse and vetch, the witches’ broom, verbena, hen and chickens. Hurt is on that stereo, my mind. Sublime, so I don’t get the whole. My thought of God’s like this. You play your role, embrace the ambiguity, let go. Autumn Song The days are getting shorter; dearest wife, I’d hoped that you’d get hornier. Oh, it’s OK. We’re not so young, but we have life. Let’s have another drink, a few more bits of brie. The stars will shine like diamonds or the teeth of sharks: that’s up to us. Right now, the jazz is just a touch too smooth. Before, the horns and drums would bray and snap. Oh how cacophonous the din! But I’m a fool who vacillates between the roles of sheep and goat. My heart’s an idiot. My rule of thumb has been my dick. The sweep of decades leaves its grit behind the lids: we saw both more, and less, when we were kids.

Three-Day Sonnet 1 It’s Packers-49ers on TV. A Love Supreme is on my iPod, loud. I drink an ale. I drink another ale. Do these distractions gratify? Or pale, set next to some aware, authentic me? 2 John Donne is posing wearing just his shroud. I picture it: Last sermon given—“Duel with Death”—so art is all that’s left. My heart’s been battered, like most others: lost renewal, grim optimism, paradox I love. 3 The dogs and I are out. A honking starts: eleven geese fly in a V above us, dawn-lit, arrow-quick. It’s odd: I’m awed. Caught beauty: Is it gratitude? Or God? The Call The rain has stopped, the trees have caught the light, I’m drinking coffee, Bruckner’s Ninth is on the stereo: I’m prepping for the dawn of the sublime, I’m trumping up a rite of passage to transcendence, numinous the word that swathes my mind, and luminous not far behind with nimbus, inner fire— but all’s too pat, of course, a canned desire. It can’t be forced, but it will come, from spouse or stranger, friend or colleague; at the gym or in shower; napping; cleaning house, or walking in the woods when light is dim; it’s serendipitous, out of the blue: this gift, a calling, that which I must do.

Revisiting Dubuque

for AZ

Your brother and your husband share a name. Your mother’s eye’s taped shut: Bell’s palsy’s got the upper hand for now. The meatloaf’s hot, you drink Bud Lite, remember why you came. Mystique is what the dog track’s called. Your own hounds sleep on beds you’ve brought, worn out by rest- stop trots, by gawkers, and by scents windblown from cities, rivers, graveyards, pastures west. You sense that something’s watching over you, and more than you: the neighbors’ foster kids, the chirping crickets . . . atoms. Everything. Catholicism’s thick round here, but true God-awe, or gratitude, trumps all, and bids you gather and be gathered, cry, and sing. The Real Deal Six-fingered as a witch, I shuffle, cut, and deal the cards. This deck has fifty-two: for every week each year, for every year I’ve crawled or walked the earth. Blind-spotted seer, I’m shining darkly, marking cards, a new impression every second telling what it’s like to be alive, in love with life. I slide ten cards to Nature; one for me. Community gets eight; my puzzling God gets five. There’s seven for my Calling; three for every Peak Experience. The odd few cards I palm I call my charm. My wife and family, alive and dead, keep score. Yes, every hand is good. And we’ll play more.

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