Poetry Friday - A sonnet is a diving bell

A sonnet is a diving bell in which
my ego safely may descend into
my id: a dark and silent region rich
with life, a home to things I never knew
existed -- creatures with voracious jaws
but little else, shy darting wisps too nervous
to observe, and all subject to laws
ignored by us who live above the surface.
Hermetically sealed in against immense
and crushing pressure, I must temper my
ascent in order to avoid the bends,
or like my sunken cousins I might die.
And yet repeatedly I brave that pressure,
hoping to return with sunken treasure.

---
From 1979 or so, with a nod to Adrienne Rich, whose "Diving into the Wreck" gave me the idea.

Poetry Friday -- The best in this kind

The best in this kind are but shadows. Here,
then, I direct who am in life directed,
resolve what, truth be told, I'm nowhere near
resolving. Though in fact you're unaffected
by my affection, here I pull the strings,
and when I tell you "Dance", then boy, you dance.
I wrote the script, I'm waiting in the wings
to take my bow. You haven't got a chance.
But I can't see you clearly anymore.
It isn't you I've got on paper, someone
hollow with a mask, a metaphor,
which you refuse steadfastly to become.
There's no one here to giggle or to gawk.
Reality's a dumbshow. Here we talk.

[From sometime in the late 70s, beginning with a line from A Midsummer Night's Dream.]