One More Sonnet

Category: philosophy

  • Trigger Point

    Trigger Point

    It’s claimed ‘the gun is innocent’ … guiltless;
    absolved of all responsibility.
    A much maligned artefact, mere witness
    to bloodshed … has no culpability.
    Left then to wonder, left in state of stun.
    ‘Pursuit of happiness … justice and peace’
    Doubt’s made a target of the smoking gun.
    Trigger-point stand-off with hair-pin release.
    Struggling to make sense, tense with disbelief.
    Broken logic, broken hearts, broken dreams,
    shattered confidence; consequence is grief.
    To bear arms, not as simple as it seems.
    . Nothing gained by force is a remedy.
    . What worth is a good man with enmity?

    © Tim Grace, 26 December 2012

    To the reader: What relationship would prosper on the promulgation of fear and suspicion? Not one that values the pursuit of happiness. By nature, the trigger-happy fool is impulsive and irresponsible; prone to late apology; an after-thought. The perceived need to self-protect describes an individualistic ideology where social order is mistrusted; it’s the breeding ground for gun-toting rhetoric and double-barrelled nonsense.

    To the poet: With this sonnet my aim was broad. I took a scatter-gun approach to the target. A rat-a-tat list of ideas that sprayed shrapnel far and wide. On the rambling range, I used a metaphoric weapon that had no respect for its victim. Collateral damage was an unfortunate consequence, tolerated as expected impact. The late volta (the swivel at line 12) took final aim… in case the point was missed.

    Trigger Point Trigger Point
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/Zzxwr4tdohw
  • Animosity

    Animosity

    No curse more worse than animosity.
    Hateful envy, a pox of bilious bile,
    jealous anger, savage ferocity,
    pity gone putrid, ugly and vile.
    Desires become cravings; converted
    wants become needs; crudely, love becomes lust;
    good things strangled, hopelessly perverted…
    so steel turns to rust, and diamonds to dust.
    Animosity will foul its own nest:
    over-paint a masterpiece, self-corrupt
    the elegance of beauty crudely dressed.
    The curse of animosity – one-upped!
    . The success of others (not yours to own)
    . If not resolved, will turn a heart to stone.

    © Tim Grace, 22 December 2012

    To the reader: Animosity is a stifling energy. Characteristically, it’s an emotional state that directs spiteful anger at a rival who has gained a perceived ‘unfair advantage’ in the relationship. From small issues problems fester and spiral out of all proportion. Resolution is unlikely to occur without some helpful intervention that manages to recalibrate the tension. Animosity is more often quelled than it is quashed.

    To the poet: A sonnet that taps into raw-emotion needs to anchor its rancour hard and fast. There’s little room to escalate slowly. The first line: “no curse more worse than animosity” unravels the expose; and the avalanche torrents forth. In a poem like this, the rush of verbiage is propelled on the back of poetic ploys that are easily translated into expected rhythms and solid rhymes; given a liberal dose of assonance, consonance and alliteration.

    Animosity
    Animosity
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/sTxBOzjxDn4
  • Desk Message

    Desk Message

    Not a year that went exactly as planned:
    melodrama, tragedy and high farce.
    Controversial guests that denied the bland
    intent of pleasant passage come to pass.
    We’ve managed (despite these guests) to cope
    with upset, and to patch-up those mistakes
    that through repair addressed the slippery slope.
    We’ve all learnt something: learnt what it takes
    to muddle-on, to pull-back from the brink;
    to keep calm; bunker down and take it slow.
    With stoic grit, we’ve learnt to neither blink
    nor shrink from scandal’s shame or worry’s woe.
    . We are the better for adversity.
    . So claims the wisdom of perversity.

    © Tim Grace, 6 December 2012

    To the reader: I worked with a colleague who muddled his way through a year of workplace calamities. Piles of paperwork spilled over his desk; nothing got finished; technologies failed, and deadlines passed. With such hopeless organisational skills, other staff watched-on in dismay. His boss gave up all hope of a supervised solution; so the problem just got worse. The disconnect widened and office isolation became entrenched.

    To the poet: I left a card somewhere on his desk. An end-of-year message that added precarious height to an existing pile of paper. And so began this sonnet. It’s not about ‘him’ more informed by his various predicaments. His office isolation (somewhat self-imposed) reminded me of brackets. Brackets (here exampled) recognise a necessary petition of parts; inclusive features, distinct in nature… describes him well.

    Desk Mess-age Desk Mess(age)
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/zqQby6sZ2rU
  • a Priestley sum

    a Priestley sum

    What we know of air is a Priestley sum;
    makes an experimental masterpiece.
    Through simple observation so we come
    to learn from nature; wonders shall not cease:
    that air might be exhausted then restored;
    made stale and then repaired; broken then fixed.
    Such are the problems science has explored,
    mulled over, pondered on, and stood betwixt.
    How so that the planet breathes, breath for breath,
    exchanging one gas for another’s use?
    How so that nature freshens the smell of death,
    converts putrid soup into perfumed juice?
    . Through unity all things are so divined.
    . Make nothing separate as should be combined.

    © Tim Grace, 25 November 2012

    To the reader: Throughout life, Joseph Priestly (1733-1804) travelled an awkward, and often uncomfortable, path of self-discovery. A precocious child who absorbed knowledge with sponge-like thirst. A dissenting adult who, through deep faith, sought to unify humanity’s purposeful existence. A revered polymath constricted by dogma and intolerance; a disgruntled citizen. In sum, a brave soul who introduced the world to the deity of science and rational belief.

    To the poet: Joseph Priestly was a great writer; a highly respected grammarian, alas it seems not a poet. My exposure to his masterful prosaic-skill was through his writing on the investigation of air; this kid knew how to write-up an experiment. The narrative style is intoxicating; refined and rugged… phlogisticated. The scientific brain exposed for his peers to pursue; and for all else to admire. Surely another canditate for membership of ‘The Science Class You Wish You Had…‘

    a Priestley sum
    a Priestley sum
    Picture Source 1:
    http://commons.m.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Chamberlain_Square_Statue_Priestley.jpg
    Picture Source 2: http://www.amazon.com/Science-Class-You-Wish-Had/dp/0399523138/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1260482695&sr=1-1
  • I Love You

    I Love You

    From love, love borrows that which love has lent.
    When love says: “I love you” love says the same.
    And so love is a circular argument.
    It’s a roundabout affair; claim for claim.
    “Good night” love says, the same is love’s reply.
    “Sweet dreams” love says, anointed with a kiss.
    “Sleep tight” love says, so starts a lullaby.
    When love says “I’m here” there’s nothing amiss;
    Love’s partner is love, together complete.
    It’s through confirmation that love endures.
    “I love you” said once, deserves repeat.
    “I love you” and “I love you” reassures.
    . Upon love’s roundabout, spins love’s intent,
    . With each return, there rides love’s sentiment.

    © Tim Grace, 18 November 2012

    To the reader: The structure of the heart has it working two-parts as one. The circulation of a life-force makes it the ideal metaphor for ‘love-central’. With responsive rhythm, the heart renews and refreshes. It’s no coincidence then, that living and loving are such united motivations. Together they fulfil our physical and emotional needs; one fuels, the other fires.

    To the poet: Sentiment is an ink that never fully dries. Its wet nature bleeds and smudges at the slightest touch. To control the flow of sentiment takes the skill of a water-colourist. The risk of over-working is ever-present; accident and incident are heavy handed partners. Sentiment is a translucent medium that washes over page and canvas with diffusive effect; a touch too much and recognition is lost.

    I Love You I Love You
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/oyCgQtCXXn8
  • Fears Not Dust

    Fears Not Dust

    Degas fears not dust, but the hand of man.
    His art is that of motion not of bronze.
    His shuttered frame’s neither still nor frozen.
    From moment to moment his art responds.
    He seeks the illusion of transfered weight;
    forward leaning movements lunging at space.
    He seeks expression through a fluid state;
    liquid locomotion spilled into place.
    See the bathing women, the jockeyed horse,
    the ballerinas giving curtain call,
    the girls with flowers, and himself of course;
    none paint a picture showing life at stall.
    . The subtle suggestion of swing and sway,
    . Creates the impression of dance at play.

    © Tim Grace, 4 November 2012

    To the reader: “What’s more static than a statued dancer?” Degas was challenged by the limitations of ‘snapshot’ art. The idea of capturing a static scene brought him little interest. His more intriguing challenge came through art that suggested something beyond the instant of creation. Through pose and posture, Degas gave his subjects impetus; his scenes momentum. Therein lies the power of degas … in every moment there’s fresh potential.

    To the poet: Like moths to light, experts love controvacy:”Degas, one suspects, was turning in his grave. Before his death in 1917, he repeatedly expressed concern that charlatans might highjack his legacy by casting his sculptures in bronze and selling them to collectors, and is said to have told his fellow painter Georges Rouault, ‘What I fear most is not dust but the hand of man.’” And that article in Bloomberg Business (by William D Cohan) triggered my poetic interest.

    Fears Not Dust Fears Not Dust
    Picture Source:
    http://www.medici.tv/mobile/la-petite-danseuse-de-degas-patrice-bart-world-premiere-opera-garnier