Every year invents its own importance;
inflates its credentials, and over-toasts
its claim to ‘best of’ status. In a glance
it’s gone: hot air and a bag full of boasts!
Last year, as with others past, had its share
of miserable moments. Worthy of note
was pestilence – body bags of despair;
climate change – skeptics on a sinking boat;
intolerance – human spirit oppressed;
calamity – with its death toll rising;
corruption – known to those who self-invest;
bloodshed – battles over socialising.
. Take forward, good hope and resolution.
. Leave behind, old rope and retribution.
To the reader: The hype of New Year celebrations verges on the vulgar. As one year becomes the next we mark the moment with pyromanic fervour. In this explosive instant we give birth to resolution. With fireworks as pedigree, is there any wonder the life-expectancy of new commitments is but a short burst of enthusiasm; followed by a quick decay of colour – resolved as a cloud of thin smoke. When hype replaces hope take care.
To the poet: This is the last of my pre-cooked sonnet commentaries. On the first day of January 2015 I resolved to spend a year editing my collection. Without pause, I was running the risk of wasting a good harvest. That pile of “one more” sonnets was stacking-up; consuming any sense of individual character. As of today, I have no more finished sonnets … through sustained resolution, I have beaten the pile!
Standing on the other side of last year.
I’m yet to move, or even lightly tread
upon the surface of a new frontier;
I’m yet to commit to the days ahead.
I’m debating the size of the first stride,
contemplating its gravity, its weight
and direction. I am yet to decide
upon its meaning – and there’s the debate;
there’s the question, that has me standing still:
am I to leap forward without reserve,
throw caution to the wind, let milk spill,
and in its flow, let go this timid nerve?
. The first step is steeped with expectation,
. bound to itself – gripped with hesitation.
To the reader: Happy New Year – reassurance really – in the face of hesitant acceptance. We charge our glasses, count down the seconds and gaze skyward; fireworks outshine the brightest constellations – a new year is born! As decreed, it’s with resolve we all step forth, each with our own bundle of wishes and aspirations for the coming year. But old habits die hard… too soon this fresh stride becomes last year’s steady gait; and the stroll through life continues its wanderous way!
To the poet: Playing with words is the joy of poetry. Interlocking syntax and semantics. Wrestling word against word, phrase against phrase until a truesful fit is found; one surrenders its meaning the other its virtue; tension and abeyance ever present. The fight can be brutal (not brittle) always honest; best of all bloody and bruising. A good poem reflects the good fight; nothing comes easy so it’s best we enjoy the struggle.