One More Sonnet

Category: Uncategorized

  • Time Is

    Time Is

    Time is a passage, a tunnel,
    That seeds our maturation,
    Time is a direction, a funnel,
    That leads our transformation.
    Time is an altered state,
    Through which dimensions drift,
    Time is a storm that won’t abate,
    It’s the pressure that gives us lift,
    Time is the daily grind, the toil,
    That callouses our skin,
    Time is the fertile ground, the soil,
    Where we plant what we begin.
    . Time is speed over distance,
    . Time is change over difference.

    © Tim Grace, 14 December 2010

    To the reader: The importance of time’s connection with age dawns upon us early in life; an evident grip that strengthens year upon year. My two line poem (age is a barrier, time is its carrier) captures the tension and is well understood by children careering into the teenage years. At once, time is a lost opportunity and a gained potential. The instance of now is too fleeting to offer certainty; and so we become accustomed to change and frustration.

    To the poet: Upon reflection, the neatness to the start of each line is useful in anchoring this sonnet to its theme; referencing itself time after time. This is almost true; but not quite. Just a couple of lines break the rule and it was tempting to adjust them to fit. But, the ‘neatness rule’ (tidy as it is) can also strip a poem of natural character … so I left it as it was.

     

    time is time is

     

  • Purpose Revealed

    Purpose Revealed

    What’s a possible conclusion,
    What’s a problem yet defined?
    What’s a plausible solution?
    What’s a pattern recombined?
    What’s a process before production?
    What’s a thought before it’s said?
    … a conceptual construction
    tied to a central thread…
    It’s a scaffold, it’s a bridge,
    It’s a design, it’s a build,
    It’s a process, it’s assemblage
    It’s a purpose … so revealed.
    .    An answer defines what’s given … the fixture.
    .    A solution describes what’s needed … the mixture.

    © Tim Grace, 7 December 2010

    To the reader: Between two points there are infinite possibilities. How and why we join dots, bridge gaps and grasp ends indicates a degree of purpose. Understanding our purpose reveals the sharpness of intent and clarifies the nature of activity. There are times when a definitive answer too solidly fixes a problem. Better might have been a softer solution; flexible and adaptable in mix.

    To the poet: Much later, I came back to this sonnet and ironically decided to tighten it up. As a final draft it had far less symmetry and left the reader struggling to find shape and structure. In its current form I may have over-played its pattern; stripped it of variation… left it void of interest. I may have over answered its solution… what’s fixed cannot be mixed.

     

    purpose revealed purpose revealed

     

  • Judge or Jury

    Judge or Jury

    To what degree, to what extent?
    To what does it refer?
    Do I agree, do I dissent?
    With what do I concur?
    Am I judge, or am I jury?
    Am I qualified to know?
    Was it grudge, or was it fury?
    Was it justified as so?
    Was it seen, or was it hidden?
    Was it cleverly disguised?
    Had it been forbidden?
    Was it knowingly comprised?
    . Confusion reigns in knots and tangles,
    . And no-one gains when judgement dangles.

    © Tim Grace, 28 November 2010

    To the reader: From confusion and dissent arises argument and in most cases some form of resolution; if not agreement. We’re often confronted with conflicting realities and multi-truths that sit uncomfortably side-by-side. When the distinguishing elements of a decision are to do with ethics there’s a moral dilemma in the making. Good versus good who’s to decide?

    To the poet: As with a babbling brook this poem ripples with small sounds. It has a surface level structure that channels the flow of words through a course of questions. The first twelve lines of the sonnet ask related questions; with an emphasis on the even lines. Following that cascade there comes resolution with the final two lines rounding off in statement; more than answer.

     

    judge or jury judge or jury

     

  • Bank of Clouds

    Bank of Clouds

    Below me, a bank of clouds,
    A deceptively solid mass,
    As with mobs, and moving crowds
    It has no guide or compass.
    As if driven by its changing shape,
    It drifts beyond itself,
    As one amorphous cloudscape,
    on its way to somewhere else.
    With dissolving definition,
    It balloons in to a form,
    With potential recognition,
    As an agitated storm
    . What’s coming? … a dull day … humourless,
    . What’s gathering? … cumulous.

    © Tim Grace, 13 November 2010

    To the reader: As terrestrial beings, humans are not often treated to a topside view of clouds. But the occasional flight provides an elevated view of these gaseous textured masterpieces of shape and form. As a natural consequence of rising damp, clouds are in constant manufacture; evolving, transforming, swelling and collapsing … wisping away to nothing, condensing into something.

    To the poet: The achievement in this sonnet comes from its ‘amorphous’ shape and form. The poem’s ‘text’ure is wordy and a little verbose. References to airborne masses float across the lines. Black and white statements are smudged forming grey illusions that drift into one and other with uncertain consequence; if not a clash then to juxtapose.

     

    bank of clouds bank of clouds

     

  • Faithful Reality

    Faithful Reality

    The reconstruction of reality,
    As captured in good prose,
    Is penned with credibility;
    So easily it flows.
    Natural to its bent,
    Truthful but not chained,
    Busy ‘yes’, but far from spent;
    Unstressed, and not constrained.
    With gently scripted phrases,
    That carve a natural course
    It’s generous with praises;
    And faithful to its source.
    .   Do what it takes, to make the words assemble,
    .   But if it shakes, let it shake … not tremble.

    © Tim Grace, 19 November 2010

    To the reader: A believable recollection if not fully true should at least be credible in its fabrication. The unpolished retell needs grit; not too processed, not too artificial. Reality needs to be plausible so that actions can be resolved through a logical sequence of reactions; consequential responses befitting a tale.

    To the poet: The fear of every poet should be false contrivance. Poems need to be designed and constructed. They need foundations and building blocks. They need to be braced and supported. What they don’t need is fabrication. They don’t need false imagery. They don’t need contrived comparison. They should need no force of will.

     

     

    faithful reality faithful reality

     

  • This Table

    This Table

    This table is my point of view,
    Provides a horizontal plane,
    It’s the visual avenue,
    To the peculiar and mundane.
    It’s from where I watch the lives we live,
    Assemble then disperse
    It’s the single-point perspective
    That stimulates my verse
    It’s the in between scene
    Of a mental map
    Where my elbows lean
    and my fingers tap.
    . It’s where clutter finds coordination,
    . And ideas meet their destination.

    © Tim Grace, 17 October 2010

    To the reader: In literal terms a cafe represents an unpretentious coffee house. In practical terms it provides time-out; joins the break between two activities; starts and ends a day; brings together two minds; and as often as not relieves the bladder… and all this for the price of a coffee. The cafe offers a public/private interlude, perfect for introspection and contemplation; people watching.

    To the poet: The passing trade in a cafe forms a poet’s banquet. From the menu comes a feast of subjects including the urbane, the mundane and the insane. Occasionally, the setting not the people deserve attention and that’s how the over-looked table became the subject of this sonnet. A poet’s table is central to the writing process as it defines the angle of observation and locates the presence of mind; it positions the poet.

     

    this table this table