One More Sonnet

Category: Uncategorized

  • Shine

    Shine

    Shine through the darkness, penetrate the night.
    Dawn beneath the shadows that overcast
    those slumbering diamonds desperate for light;
    uncovered memories, bejewelled to last.
    Shine between the cracks of that shattered dream.
    Gloss over edges that diminish hope,
    polish up the threads of a golden seam;
    discovered passions, rekindled to cope.
    Shine upon a steel breeze, amend its mood.
    Take the black dog and heat its cold intent
    with warmth; the antidote is attitude;
    recovered talents, refashioned to vent.
    . Depression’s remedy is a light touch,
    . a glimmer of hope, that will shine as such.

    © Tim Grace, 2 December 2012

    To the reader: For the discerning adolescent ear, Pink Floyd filled a ‘head space’ that responded to the musical dynamics of depth and complexity. The sound of other bands, including the Beatles, could tolerate the phonic limitations of an old record player. But, to best appreciate a Pink Floyd album it had to be dust-free and scratch-less. With the right hi-fi system, Pink Floyd could transform a bedroom into a theatre of ethereal sound.

    To the poet: Pink Floyd’s first album ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ (1967) contains eight lyrics penned by Syd Barrett. Read as poetry, it’s clear Syd knew how to craft a song; he knew the rules, and had a versatile bank of ‘tips and tricks’ in his wordsmith quiver. As an exercise, I wrote this sonnet as a sampler; at the same time acknowledging the traumatic demise of a shining star … condensed to a ‘crazy diamond’.

    Shine Shine
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/qGd1eiLKY_8
  • 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
  • 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
  • To some extent…

    To some extent…

    A thoughtful pose has contemplative poise;
    its purpose is more poignant than profound.
    In posture it’s positioned and so deploys
    a line of thought before it breaks new ground.
    It’s a ponderous thought without anchor;
    not hooked to certainty, not chained to proof,
    not pitched to ruffle, or raised to ranker;
    as ever prudent it remains aloof.
    To some extent it loiters with intent;
    seeking permission before intrusion.
    Along with due regard it’s time well spent:
    ‘Blessed is the thought without conclusion’
    . Contemplation … preserves the pragmatic.
    . Reservation … rescues the erratic..

    © Tim Grace, 20 October 2012

    To the reader: Avoiding the arrogance of certainty requires reservation. For those endowed with high-powered intellects, and an impulsive nature, being thoughtful is a challenge. Their ability to be cautious in conclusion is often over-ridden by a narrow spark of brilliance that out-shines the soft-light of wisdom. Because they thrive on instancy they contrive urgent environments that demand quick solutions … but what of the question that has no answer?

    To the poet: … blessed is the thought without conclusion. To pause in a suspended state of wonder feeds imagination, fuels curiosity, opens the mind to a range of possibilities. My poetry is like that… the rules of sonnet writing conveniently slow down the thought process to a mindful state of awareness. In my opinion, being a meditative amusement, the sonnet is best cooked slowly. There are other forms of poetry that celebrate spontaneity; to them I tip my hat.

    To some extent... To some extent…
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/rRKpo1_oiqY
  • Terminal Ferocity

    Terminal Ferocity

    Early in debate, two sharp points were made.
    Succinct as a dagger’s thrust; both cut deep.
    To be driven home, each decisive blade
    was further twisted; blood and guts did seep.
    The angles of intrusion were acute;
    on passage, both knives parted flesh from bone,
    lanced the stomach, and punctured lungs on route.
    They came to rest, rigid as steel in stone.
    As life bled from the wounds (of both soon dead)
    those in witness stopped in forensic pause;
    thought upon the motive and so agreed:
    “Death came to pass upon a common cause.”
    . For those who debate, agreement is death;
    . a sign of weakness … such a waste of breath.

    © Tim Grace, 14 October 2012

    To the reader: I worked in an office where heated debate would often culminate in furious agreement. Two staff-members with fiery temperaments would constantly joust and parry over common ground. For all in witness, it would have been far better these two pedants had opposing views of worthy substance. Alas, and instead, the two argued over detail and finally arrived at a consensus; long-since agreed by all else half-concerned by the menial matter.

    To the poet: “What of two minds that claim a single thought?” The two subjects of this poem are in dispute; literally. Are they the two sharp points, are they the two daggers; then again, are they the two adversaries? That subjective confusion is deliberate in construing an investigative pastiche; a crime scene of sorts. As required of this genre, a confused subject needs a vague objective; and so the plot thickens. What’s the remedy? A strong couplet that solves the riddle.

    Terminal Ferocity Terminal Ferocity
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/lMDJNoWbpbI
  • Four-legged Rort

    Four-legged Rort

    To overcome the arrogance of thought
    I must learn to draw what’s seen not known,
    I must then, confront the four-legged rort
    that would have my tables with all legs shown.
    For as long as knowledge controls my hand
    I am nothing more than a drafting pawn.
    For as long as I am in thought’s command
    my work will be crowded and over-drawn.
    What my canvas captures is not complete:
    it’s my view, my angle, my perspective;
    it’s everything that needs to be, replete
    with meaning, mine eyes have been selective.
    . Beware the mindset, as would knowledge coax;
    . of full-display, ’tis but a clever hoax.

    © Tim Grace, 11 October 2012

    To the reader: The conundrum of competing perspectives tickles our intellect. This we accept. In representational terms, there are plainly differences between what we see and what we know. Unhelpfully though, Shakespeare further adds an emotional dimension to our interpretative struggles. He reminds us that regardless of what makes intellectual sense our ‘heart’ speaks its own mind and through this prism creates a kaleidoscope of emotional confusions.

    To the poet: “Is to know a hoax, a grand dilusion?” Certainty is no trusted companion; more like a fickle friend; an opportunist; an answer with no solution. The poet is forever tempted, for completeness sake, to achieve resolution; un-puzzle a proposition through clever wit. In poetry, and the visual arts, we learn to create a plausible perspective: true more than accurate, honest more than correct.

    Four-legged Rort Four-legged Rort