Made in his likeness. More true than correct.
A permanent resemblance, confirming
his rigidity. In every respect
a replica; and in that sense, a thing
to be admired. As would justify
impressive compliment: so highly classed,
so desirable to this maiden’s eye.
Thus, besotted by his enduring cast,
she would praise upon him commendation.
Wonder at the depth of his conviction.
Absorb his strength, ride his motivation;
’til resolved of Cupid’s contradiction.
. Conviction is not a measure of length,
. without substance we have no strength.
To the reader: Stature has less to do with shape and form; more to do with conviction and substance. While the proportion of a figure provides insight into its mechanical advantages, the nature of its pose and posture suggest its depth of character. Poise and style are features of an impressive presence; something to be admired.
To the poet: Shakespeare enjoyed a little naughtiness. Sprinkled throughout his sonnets are references to all manner of subtle titillations. His last two sonnets (153 and 154) provide the most obvious examples of his brand of bawdiness. Never salacious or explicit just suggestive of something a little spicy. Could that be … surely not?
Do we discover purpose, or is that
a given; that through life, we must fulfil?
To what extent are we determined, at
what point do we grip that moment still?
Is life just another conversation,
a string of thoughts? Ruminated verbiage
that connects two points upon occasion.
A life-span, that builds a virtual bridge
from here to eternity; quite a stretch.
A void, can’t be leapt in a single bound;
can’t be fathomed; a forward passing fetch,
caught on the fly – wrestled and brought to ground.
. Life’s narrative is given spin and span,
. just enough to scuttle the ‘best of’ plan.
To the reader: The ‘universal givens’ are built into the fabric of our design. Therefore, our solutions to some extent conform to a pre-determined brief. Within bounds there’s plenty of room to be creative but as nature so regularly displays, there are some basic patterns that warrant repeat: the beautiful helix, the golden ratio and fibonacci’s spiral; to name a few.
To the poet: Our purpose; a universal mystery, that asks: “Why are we here?”. Without certainty of purpose we have no option but to explore the potential of an uncertain existence. To chronicle that collective journey, the Arts provide an open ended narrative. Without apology, the Arts interpret uncertainty using imagination as its tool of choice. To search is our purpose… the mission is unclear.
There’s a field of sunflowers, fertilised
with blood and bone that’s fallen from the sky.
A forensic crop, to be scrutinised
for every seed of truth; felled from on high.
There’ll be a harvest of human debris,
a reassembling of the scatterings.
There’ll be an inquest into tragedy
with assessment of its smatterings.
And all of this… and all of this for what?
A crime scene, rich with humanity’s loss.
A battle field, a war zone; someone’s plot
eternal, and ‘they’ couldn’t give a toss.
. Scatterings – the source of recovery.
. Smatterings – the course of discovery.
To the reader: Civilian passengers and crew, on MH17, were victims of a missile attack. Aircraft and human debris landed in a field of sunflowers in Ukrane’s disputed territory. Embattled circumstances surrounding the crime scene created a forensic nightmare. The inexplicable nature of the horrific attack was worsened by a lack of responsibility or remorse shown by those who perpetrated the crime.
To the poet: Looking back on my draft, this sonnet was written in one session without much editing required. At the time of writing, there was a pervasive sense of frustration being expressed by nations seeking compassionate resolution. Without reserve, the sonnet depicts a wantonly wasteful tragedy… highlights the futility of war.
I am nothing but myself without you.
You are the key to every lock I own.
To say you are my everything is true.
Without you I am never more alone.
You are my Spring, you are my Autumn-flush.
Without you I’m a Winter-plot unkempt.
You are my Summer – every flower’s blush.
Without you I’m a year that wasn’t dreamt.
You are my awakening; my morning would
be nothing but the softest dew at dawn.
You are my sketch, that pictures me as good.
Without you I’m an image never drawn.
. You are the life in every day I live
. You are the gift in every thing I give.
To the reader: Love is an ingredient that confirms completeness, enriches purpose and satisfies our intimate desires. We nurture partnerships through love’s tenderness; it’s love that cares about a broken heart, it’s love that freshens an exhausted soul, it’s love that brings joy to adult affairs. Love’s generous abundance is in endless reserve; love replenishes love; love’s gift is love.
To the poet: The first quatrain is tentative, the second a bit soppy; and the third, hopeful of a climax. The final couplet provides the post-literal summary. When ‘love’ becomes an object of attention it resists exposure; love is shy and reserved in nature. Love is rarely captured without damage. Like a butterfly… most beautiful in flight.
A dispossessed poet has no address.
Vagrant wordsmith finds himself lost for words.
Sunday morning solitude. More or less
a Waste Land. Quarters apportioned in thirds;
fractional allotments… absurdities.
Occupied tables, multiples of six,
or four, or two. Disputed territories.
Unilateral remedies, far from fix
an awkward treaty. Spaces between lines
become expansive; attract attention.
Diplomatic remedy realigns
position; puts possessed in contention.
. A poet in the margins, far from lost,
. far from desolate; has his words embossed.
To the reader: Rhyme-inducing comfort zones are hard to find, and even harder to keep; context is everything. For years, I’ve sampled cafe cuisines in pursuit of an ideal writing ambiance. For the most part, a hotel’s ‘breakfast room’ seems optimal. As a large enterprise, hotels usually offer an affordable option of ‘tea and toast’. With passing trade, the regular change of clientele constructs an interesting sense of community; notable but not obvious.
To the poet: If you’re outwardly observant and inwardly conscious the creative mind looks after the assembly of a poem. Once the mind is located and in-flow with the general gist of a theme it will mix and match its contribution of frames and reference points. That’s all very well, and easier said than done; practice and discipline are critical components of the process – and that presumes a conducive space to write. Conducive means interesting but non-distractive.
A banquet of sound, black vinyl, white noise;
orchestrated decibels, perfect pitch.
Deconstructed platter, good taste, good poise;
just desserts, justify a burning itch.
A scratch which turns attention; an etude,
a miscellaneous menu, so fresh.
Glass onions, savoy truffles; naked; nude;
raw numbers; rare cuts; marinated flesh.
A selective sampling of time and place;
a harvest of life without hunger’s haste.
The sensibility of course not race;
an appetite is best expressed through taste.
. Prudence and elegant sufficiency;
. a sprinkled modicum of decency.
To the reader: Upon return from India, the Beatles set about creating what was to become known as the ‘White Album’. A collection of songs representing every facet of their creative interests. The double album contains an impressive sampling of music from their vast library of interpretive styles; showcasing the Fab Four’s prodigious versatility, emphasising their status as independent ‘Apple’ artists. The album is inwardly and outwardly referential; highlighting a new level of consciousness… paving the way for new things to come.
To the poet: The White Album Concert was an Australian initiative. Some of our most talented rock-musicians were drawn from their day-jobs to recreate the entire album; live-on-stage. The ‘project’ was dauntingly brave; the result was brilliant! Following the concert, dinner was eaten at “4Fouteen” – a Sydney restaurant specializing in ‘nose to tail’ cuisine; again, a banquet of eclectic tastes was consumed. And so, fully inspired, I wrote this sonnet…