One More Sonnet

Category: writing

  • Heavy Handed

    Heavy Handed

    A blunt instrument has its rationale:
    simple and direct; an obvious choice.
    It’s the wham-bam … SLAM … solution with snarl;
    the “said and done” answer in active voice.
    The mallet has enough nudge to persuade
    a shift of placement; when handled with care.
    The club, a more aggressive tool of trade
    is nonetheless useful for crude repair.
    “Bigger the problem, bigger the clammer!”
    In many respects I suppose that’s true;
    Justifies a heavy-handed hammer:
    “Nail down the batten that won’t take a screw.”
    . In the best of hammers there’s a sweet spot,
    . a point at which cold steel becomes red hot.

    © Tim Grace, 6 May 2012

    To the reader: For my tenth birthday I was given a real tool box; an initiation gift of sorts. The hammer made particular impact. As a step-up from previous toys, this hammer expressed itself with style and performed with precision. The frustration of ‘bash and split’ was soon replaced by an understanding of ‘propper’ nailing and nudging. A good hammer knows its own strength, but prefers to act with gentle and judicious persuasion.

    To the poet: ‘Heavy Handed’ seems appropriate in titling this sonnet. In woodwork terms, the nail bent, the hammer slipped, the wood split; and the thumb bruised. The joinery is clumsy. Nailing down a poem does require a convincing script; but the degree of persuasion should not be visible in the final product. In this sonnet, the finish includes far too many construction issues; its faults are on full display… apologies from a bashful poet.

     

    Heavy Handed Heavy Handed
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/sSqyqj58i8M

     

  • A Fallen Thought

    A Fallen Thought

    I have swept the path of last Summer’s leaves;
    it’s late April, so prepare the parade.
    Salute the fallen; sombre Autumn heaves
    a sigh; recalls the cover of green shade.
    Now, on my shoulder rests a golden leaf.
    What am I to do? Brush it to the ground?
    How do I interpret this small motif:
    as commemorative fall; from tree unbound?
    Between my shoulder and the ground there’s space,
    just enough space, to think about good cause.
    There’s time, just enough time, to put in place
    a thought… a moment for reflective pause.
    . In fluttering leaves there’s a story told,
    . it’s a narrative, that turns green to gold.

    © Tim Grace, 23 April 2012

    To the reader: In temperate Australia, the autumnal month of April is adorned with commemorative symbolism. The imagery includes bravery and mateship woven into wreathes of green and gold. As the leaves of Summer flutter softly to the ground, there’s a sombre passage of reflection; space and time to remember the fallen before winter turns the foliage to mush. Those who fought for peace, now rest in peace… lest we forget.

    To the poet: A nice sonnet that turns a small personal incident into something more socially significant; and that’s the point of poetry. Through the obvious we discover truth; between gaps we discover opportunity; from now we interpret the moment – but only if we take notice. As poets, we need to observe what is and isn’t happening; for between these occurrences speaks possibility… through the poet’s eye we imagine the universe.

     

    A Fallen Thought
    A Fallen Thought
    Picture Sources:
    1. http://youtu.be/E56YcMbnCO4
    2. http://youtu.be/eY3ASysJfCQ

     

  • Angling

    Angling

    All I did was drop a line, nothing more
    than simply give you cause to contemplate.
    It was not my chin that dropped, not my jaw
    that took umbrage; not me who bit the bait.
    You could have let it go, let it dangle.
    Instead, you gave it a tug, you tested
    the line; turned what was slack into tangle.
    It was you who floundered, then protested.
    Nonetheless, you did nothing to resist
    it’s ascorbic tang; and so, there you hang,
    dangling from a string of words, a long list
    of ponderings that promulgated pang.
    . What lures fish from the safety of rocks?
    . It’s the slightly plausible paradox.

    © Tim Grace, 21 January 2012

    To the reader: It doesn’t take much to create a fuss over a line of words. Retracting that string of thought is difficult; it gets snagged so easily. On a good day a contentious thought might be openly aired; on a bad day it becomes a most enticing deep-water bait. As it sinks a small school of fish nibbles its edges; but then, along comes a shark with far bigger intentions. Discretion being the better part of valour decrees the warranted loss of hook, line and sinker… one should never angle for a fight.

    To the poet: This sonnet did follow an argument over the previous sonnet regarding silos. Why two people would choose to angrily debate the virtues of a silo I don’t know. Nonetheless, it spawned a good piece of purgative poetry. The poem has some satisfying sub-elements that I enjoyed merging into its deeper layers of construction; for later in depth analysis.

     

    angling Angling
    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/rG1xOUIykhY