What new wisdom has last night’s slumber brought
to this “good morning” as of now untapped?
How might the sun rise on a new thought
and give ‘novelty’ power to adapt?
With new thought comes the bud of inspiration,
the compact remedy, as yet unpacked.
It’s the starting point of contemplation,
it’s the new idea that yesterday lacked.
New wisdom much like a fresh flower blooms:
not from old stock, not from a stem detached.
Wisdom is but one bloom that newly grooms
itself to best show a solution hatched.
. Today refreshed is last night’s cameo,
. As bud becomes bloom, so this day will grow.
To the reader: The sun rises, a new day dawns, and if the night was good to you there’s a fresh awakening. Over night, your niggles have been processed; disencumbered from yesterday’s tangles. And so, with fresh clarity you take a novel approach to loosening that stubborn knot. The tired solution, over-worked and fruitless, has been rested… retired to make room for this day’s innovation.
To the poet: In construction, some poems are satisfying others wrestle with their maker. Those that satisfy, like this one, have a physical arrangement that scaffolds the poem’s structural sense. By design, a satisfying poem will have physical strength; a visible appearance that matches its message. A poem with look and feel has inner and outer strength, rhymes feel relaxed and resoundingly echo their way throughout the text; form and function tied with an evident but invisible thread.
How so, that sleep undoes a tangled knot,
and through darkness invents a grand design?
What has sleep that my woken mind has not?
From where dawns its brilliance, its clever shine?
I imagine, or do at least suspect
(for nothing more than thought can be my proof)
that there must be a time, a time unchecked,
when uprises sleep to begin its spoof;
through a short-list of yesterday’s wonders,
unsolved, given up to further thinking;
given up to logic’s bin of blunders,
for night to make right in just a blinking.
. How so that sleep outwits my woken mind?
. It lets go the bits that by day do grind.
To the reader: Sleep, far from an unconscious passage through darkened hours, is an active agent of the night. In sleep-mode, we switch our attention to sifting and sorting through snippets of past experience. In the ‘dark room’ (from an endless supply of stock) we develop our post-production sequences into lucid and surreal dreams. Hours of sleep provide space for re-interpretation of time and place; unrestricted by the physical constraints of a woken mind.
To the poet: In writing this sonnet I wanted to create a sense of one-being in two-minds; pondering a perplexity. The over-riding order is a sequence of questions tentatively answered without confidence or surety; deliberately vague and suggestive of possibility. Speaking to yourself through a third-party narrator is a dream-like experience – sleep uncouples and derails the midnight express; the train is off its tracks.
I understand this niggling annoyance.
The interminable itch that gives twitch
to every grumpiness; groan and grievance.
The useless bits of nonsense that won’t switch
to off; won’t give reason to time-of-day;
bits that go on and on ad nauseam;
the incessant barking and raucous affray
that underwrites this state of tedium.
I understand, but can not comprehend
what benefit from this a fool derives.
Why promote stupidity, why defend
a cause that surely craziness contrives?
. Is there not some rule or code of practice
. that might blunt the prick of thorn and cactus?
To the reader: An artefact of age is wisdom. Unfortunately, the suffering of fools is a patient art that gets no easier with age… and there lies the rub! That the grumpy old man becomes himself a fool is a cruel irony. As time progresses, our time on Earth compresses; and so, quite rightly, we become less tolerant of wastrels and their stupid contrivances. For a short while, after the heat of Summer has subdued, we reap with abundance Autumn’s harvest. In these years, before the permafrost of Winter sets us still, we protect our investments from ill-witted fools that cause us angst.
To the poet: Spelling… all very clever, but don’t get me going. A check through my draft of this sonnet reveals my unique take on letter arrangements. First issue was interminable; far too many non-specific syllables. Then we came to ‘adnausium’ – obviously needed some Latin attention before arriving at ‘derives’ which in my draft possessed a second ‘r’ (don’t ask me why). Raucous began life without the unnecessary ‘o’ – as in caucus. “For those who can spell, it’s all very well…”
When the rose of last year’s love was not replaced,
she whispered “I loved you” and shed a tear.
She closed her eyes and through her memory traced
his pattern; she imagined he was near.
Filled heavy with acceptance, her tear swelled,
wet her lashes and rolled upon her cheek.
This tear was not wept, this tear quelled
the weeping worry; no mourning did it seek.
There was no need for other tears to flow.
Tenderly, and for just a moment brief,
she held this tear and then she let him go…
gone to soul; to find comfort and relief.
. A lover’s loss is not for time to keep,
. It’s far better kept where the soul is deep.
To the reader: I remember watching a Twin Towers documentary, describing remnant lives, a decade after the attack. It was clear that many emotional towers had taken devastating hits and were still struggling to rebuild any semblance of structural strength. Gradual resolution of the inexplicable loss of a loved-one, an intimate partner, is a torrid journey of repair; never complete … when the weeping is done, enduring, endearing Love is forever expressed in a single tear.
To the poet: … and there ends my deliberate set of love poems; some about Love, others for Love, and a few in Love. Shakespeare wrote of Love as both spirit and soul. As spirit, Love is an attractive energy that fuels our motivation to intimately bond. As soul, Love is a figmented expression our passionate desires. Blessed with Love (spirit and soul) we are granted the human condition; ever challenged to balance on the one-hand energy and on the other passion; the humours: dispositions, preferences, propensities, and temperaments.
Born of soul, love’s likeness is that of child,
often wilful and prone to stubborn shows
that well-mask the features of meek and mild;
hidden until love more mature grows.
Young love, self-obsessed with grand potential
will boast itself as something shiny new;
too conceited to be referential.
This love is far from fair and kind and true,
with distant distain love rejects its source,
delights in the harvest of foreign shores
that uncharted, provide no homeward course
to the sheltered ports that our soul adores.
. Soul is a measure of depth not distance;
. but, young love is slow to learn the difference.
To the reader: When we personify young love we often grant it a spirited soul. Using an old agrarian metaphor young love has goat-like qualities: haughty, self-obsessed and petulant. We’ve acquainted ourselves to this interpretation through centuries of artistic representation. Born in Spring, young love assumes the character of air, the presence of Jupiter, the viscosity of blood, the physicality of heart; along side a sanguine mood… all very attractive!
To the poet: … and furthermore: young love, not to be confused with adolescence, has a long glossary of attributes; well known to poets of the past. In a literary sense, fresh love is recognisable as having a moist and pink complexion; along with a thirst for wine and merriment. This youthful spirit is gentle, meek and mostly benign; fairly-spoken and slow to anger. It’s this fresh spirit that Shakespeare so desperately sought for his own rejuvenation: “As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie: That is my home of love”
Love, so challenged, no inner conflict wins.
As a partner of peace love wages war
on itself. Off-set, love’s giddy-heart spins;
and so forsaken, loses sight of sure.
In conflict with its own best interest
love brokers treaties never to be sealed;
love enters into contracts that at best
record the battles fought upon a field
of unbound, unfound, unwound agreements
that soon form a quarry of love’s dispute.
The rumoured whispers, the lost endearments
stripped of meaning and purposeful pursuit.
. When tit meets tat, love declares a battle.
. What gains love from this quarrelsome prattle?
To the reader: As a partner of peace, in the orchestration of harmonic waves, love is prone to self-doubt. To resolve its off-key insecurities, love seeks reassurance; constantly calibrating its pitch and frequency. Love is prone to high peaks of ecstasy and low pits of depression; vacillating between major and minor keys. Harmony requires an oscillating not vacillating partnership; good vibrations that intermingle as one resounding chord.
To the poet: Love is the greatest of all abstract nouns. An intangible force that has had poets spellbound since first the word was uttered; stuttered in association with its tangible sensations. As a rhyming partner, Love has outlived its obvious relationships. The dove, that bird of peace, has long since flown its roost; likewise the velvet glove has outworn its soft semantic touch.