One More Sonnet

Category: sonnets

  • All But Lost

    All But Lost

    Lost objects: misplaced, dropped, or stolen;
    buried; put down through absence of mind
    Lost bravado: diminished, unswollen;
    deflated; rigid support now declined.
    Lost causes: with the best of intentions;
    unfulfilled; promises stalled and delayed.
    Lost rewards: accrue treasured dimensions;
    benefits foregone; with bonus unpaid.
    Lost directions: said purpose gone amiss;
    somewhere becomes nowhere; set poles apart.
    Lost investments: without jackpot or bliss;
    shrewd can be clever; with losses that smart.
    . Lost meanings: in the hand of ancient scribes,
    . Lost cities: gone meandering with tribes.

    © Tim Grace, 3 February 2013

    To the reader: Lost is a location none of us set out to find. Technically, I suppose it’s as much a place as any other. Lost is where the misplaced gather. Lost is a nebulous noun that, through vowel-association, finds its place in the good company of: last, lest, list and lust. It’s origins are from Old English tongues, where it evolved from words associated with perish; as in gone missing.

    To the poet: Being a pedant is not a poetic prerequisite; however, having a creative interest in words is a desirable attribute. Pulling apart, rebuilding and associating the word ‘lost’ sparked my sustained interest. Whether the pursuit and discovery was worthwhile I’m not sure. All things considered, I clarified in my own mind the difference between a lost object and a lost cause.

    All But Lost
    All But Lost
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/_8jzqKNDkgM
  • That Final Breath

    That Final Breath

    Sadly, one certainty of life is death.
    And so, it is for all of us to end.
    Somewhere, there awaits our final breath.
    Inhaled, not for exchange, but to expend.
    This breath, of all breaths, is to be remorsed.
    It’s the breath most wasted and least returned.
    Consumed for the purpose of life’s exhaust;
    of continuation, it’s least concerned.
    Somewhere, then, this final breath sits in wait…
    to be swallowed deep but not ingested.
    This breath has destiny; a half-used fate;
    incomplete, resolute, uncontested.
    . But for one-breath, we have life’s abundance.
    . It’s through this-breath, that we meet redundance.

    © Tim Grace, 3 February 2013

    To the reader: Not breathless, simply exhausted of life. It’s the last breath taken and not returned. Delivers a terminal solution. The act of living is respiration. Recycled air; a generous spirit. Acts of goodness get taken for granted. We begin and end our lives with a gasp. Air is a rich and abundant resource. Not a trivial keep-worthy trinket. Not to be held for longer than needed. Its living purpose is spent and renewed.

    To the poet: In ‘to the reader’ I collected together eleven sentences loosely connected to the topic of breath. Each sentence is ten-syllables long and follows on from the previous; but it’s not poetry. The difference has something to do with a missing thread of consciousness. The thread of poetry is tied by the poet and un-ravelled by the reader; one gives the other receives … together we breathe the spirit of art.

    That Final Breath
    That Final Breath
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/s7HHyAN60qI
  • Persistent Wind

    Persistent Wind

    A persistent wind, agitating dust;
    careless intruder, unwelcome entry.
    Full of bravado, a blustering gust;
    unsettling a layer of certainty.
    A persistent wind, feeding fuel to fire;
    craving attention and demanding note.
    Temperamental breeze, a funeral pyre;
    no whimsy whistle works as antidote.
    A persistent wind, a buffering blow;
    cuts across the bow and ruffles feathers.
    Strips a tree of foliage and Autumn’s glow;
    this resistant fiend smites all endeavours.
    . An ill-wind, the likes we all must suffer;
    . should be endured with brunt or buffer.

    © Tim Grace, 17 January 2013

    To the reader: A cutting breeze strips a day of comfort. Each of the senses responds with agitation. In defence, we can either face the challenge or turn our back. To face the challenge requires head-on resistance; a regardless attitude that stiffens to the breeze. Turning-the-back is an obstinate show of defiance. Should we brunt or buffer? Somewhere between passive and aggressive there’s an appropriate response… ‘the answer is blowing in the wind’.

    To the poet: It wasn’t until I began writing ‘to the reader’ that I realised I had written a sonnet describing Bob Dylan… a persistent wind. He arrived in the early 1960s on a gust of rising social awareness; and decades-on, he’s still shaking trees and rustling leaves. Now identified, I re-read the sonnet with the brusk-breeze personified; I have faced the wind.

    Persistent Wind Persistent Wind
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/oqEcFUW9Ai4
  • No Convenience

    No Convenience

    In constant measure, at relentless pace,
    makes meaningless: to stop, to pause, to rest.
    For every endeavour an endless chase,
    a continuous stream of life abreast.
    If not one thing, another; all things merge,
    detail is lost, rendered as a background blur.
    Not something new, not a modern scourge,
    simply this day prepared for life ‘du jour’.
    Living alongside what has come and gone,
    as to be repeated then multiplied.
    Think of it as ‘de ja vous’, think upon
    all things as one, where time and space collide.
    . If time portrays no obedience,
    . it qualifies as no convenience.

    © Tim Grace, 5 January 2013

    To the reader: In some respects, time is a container; a higgledy-piggledy box of events. Each day I select a sample of interests that I add to my biographical anthology. Unlike most boxes, this one is endlessly expandable; made of a curious material that responds to its content. It’s a durable, self-repairing material: water-proof, fire-proof, and wind-proof. It’s a permeable membrane, it’s an impervious membrane; it’s a membrane that forgets and remembers.

    To the poet: This box is not a trap. When writing poetry, there’s an endless choice of material; content. Your sources are infinite; beyond experience, the only limit is the extent of your imagination. The poem (seen as a membrane) represents time: “it’s a permeable membrane, it’s an impervious membrane; it’s a membrane that forgets and remembers.”

    No Convenience
    No Convenience
  • Today I’m late

    Today I’m late

    Usually, one of the early risers;
    from sun-up, noting texture of the day.
    Mostly ready, for the day’s surprises;
    well-prepared, well-postured, for come what may.
    But today I’m late, I’ve lost advantage;
    just one of many, recently arrived.
    Left to share a script on a crowded stage;
    just one of the collective, so contrived.
    Late… my expansive day has been confined.
    I’m now a post-script that time has stolen;
    an after-thought, yet to be assigned.
    I’m a conscript, a left-over colon.
    . With an early start, you design your day,
    . Leave it too late, and to a script you’ll play.

    © Tim Grace, 1 January 2013

    To the reader: As routine activities become more general they acquire a network of dependencies. My morning routine is like that. It might appear that I’m up early and out the door to do some writing. Not so, it seems. Small changes to parts of my morning mission can torpedo the enterprise. With a small series of delays, I find myself cornered in a crowded café. No words can describe my…

    To the poet: Writing about writing is an introspective task; somewhat therapeutic, slightly poignant. A metacognitive indulgence that’s occasionally excused by a patient reader; one with a forgiving nature. Unpacking this sonnet, reveals its block-like construction. Inevitably, piece-by-piece, the puzzle is connected; rules are followed and so it lazily meets its final couplet… late to arrive at its conclusion.

    Today I'm Late
    Today I’m Late
  • Words Have Accents

    Words Have Accents

    Words have accents, some subtle, some severe.
    The urban banter of a rough-cut brogue.
    The soft rounded lilt that lovers revere.
    Words are responsive to fashion and vogue.
    They’re tandem partners in a common phrase,
    They’re crude expletives in a colourful verse,
    They’re gushing gaffs in superlative praise.
    They can mumble, grumble; be short and terse.
    Words can shatter dreams, mend a broken heart,
    Words have expression, and so resemble
    the whispering wind and the dashing dart,
    the babbling brook and the leaves atremble
    . Words have accents, some are rich and refined,
    . others more guttural, milled in a grind.

    © Tim Grace, 26 December 2012

    To the reader: For such little things words can pack a powerful punch. The expletive works well alone; but on the whole words are social creatures. In pairs they hyphenate easily; in threes and fours they craft a competent phrase; beyond that their assemblage constitutes a sentence. In the world of words context is everything, for without association words are reduced to meaningless sounds; mere babble vibrating through space.

    To the poet: In poetry, the word is a versatile instrument; adaptable and flexible. Adaptive in a syntactic sense, it transitions from active to descriptive modes with ease. As a flexible element, the word’s semantic nuances are powerful attachments to emotional strings. Between the right and wrong choice of word there’s a world of difference. A bit like chemistry … where a combination of elements can be volatile; evaporative and explosive.

    Words Have Accents
    Words Have Accents
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/JHLMGBwAbhA