One More Sonnet

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  • Be … His…

    Be … His…

    Be soothed, mellow is his voice,
    Take comfort, pleasant is his tone,
    Be secured, anchored to his choice,
    Take steps towards his zone,
    Be open to suggestions,
    Give permission to his means,
    Be prone to his impressions,
    Give way to setting scenes,
    Be willing, under his cajole,
    Rest aside reason and debate,
    Be content, consent to his control,
    Rest easy, in this deeply altered state.
    . He has you in a sleep-filled trance,
    . Exposed … to his control of circumstance.

    © Tim Grace, 21 February 2011

    To the reader: Being a hypnotist’s dummy, I imagine, requires nerve. The value of surrender, I suspect, warrants the investment. Being susceptible to another’s authority has me fearful of exposure and embarrassment. As an onlooker, I enjoy the theatre of comic hypnotism. The dramatic elements of powerless submission are bewildering; and often amusing. There seems to be no battle, resistance is futile; but only for those who choose it so… quite strange!

    To the poet: Wooden boxes can be made using all manner of decorative joints. Function is a necessary factor, but aesthetics delivers the essential ornamental purpose. The same is so for this poem which in a functional sense communicates an idea; nothing too important. Over function, of more interest is its shape and pattern. The pairing of lines is emphasised at front and end, the quatrains are internally repetitive and the rhyming is simple; all to good effect.

     

    Be ... His ... Be … His …

     

  • Streamlined

    Streamlined

    Those who struggle can not swim,
    They meet their own resistance,
    Suffer they from heavy limb,
    That will not last the distance.
    Those who swim in part submerged,
    With half their heart committed,
    They tire soon, as poorly served,
    By shallow breaths acquitted.
    Those who swim with buoyant ease,
    They suffer not fatigue,
    They ride the water’s gentle squeeze,
    And thus they swim in league.
    . Lapse not in to heavy thinking,
    . Burdened … to the point of sinking.

    © Tim Grace, 20 February 2011

    To the reader: The art of swimming. Going with the flow. Immersed in a liquid moment. At one with your surroundings. If you watch the experts, the trick seems to be a combination of style and technique; together, delivering a confident stamina. Swift buoyancy. There is no struggle. A great swimmer gives more meaning to ‘stroke’ than any dictionary could offer.

    To the poet: Loose in its sonnet structure this poem divides into three verse-like quatrains. As with lanes in a pool the quatrains mark out meaning. In this case, the first two sets of four define the struggle of a non-swimmer in competition with water. The next four lines refer to the swimmer in league with water. Natural swimmers work in partnership with water, they are fluid and streamlined; poetry in motion.

     

    streamlined streamlined

     

  • Four Strings

    Four Strings

    To the strains of a string quartet,
    The classics claim the night,
    With four strings and not one fret,
    The chords are sheer delight.
    Feel the warmth of Vivaldi’s Spring,
    The late harvest, reaping scores,
    The crescendo, hanging on a string,
    The fertile note, the pregnant pause,
    Brahm’s in accompaniment, mellow,
    As the sound of water over stones,
    To finish (with yiddish temperament) the cello,
    Draws a long bow; in sombre tones.
    . The living sounds are beautifully matched,
    . They often come with strings attached.

    © Tim Grace, 18 February 2011

    To the reader: The soft sounds of a string quartet float with reassurance; buoyant. The four piece band with full emphasis on melodic harmonies; tuneful. The result, a beautifully balanced accompaniment to a night on the rolling waves; far from all at sea. Nervous introductions, delivered in broken English, were translated into masterful renditions of music’s classical best.

    To the poet: Nothing like being there. Nonetheless, a good poem extends the moment; outlasts the experience and aids retrieval. Ditties, like snapshots or snippets, are framed with little purpose beyond a statement of ‘I was here…”. Through deeper recollection, the experience can’t be surpassed, magnified or replicated; it can be synthesised. The poem, for just a moment, can make sense of all things at once.

     

    four strings four strings

     

  • She is the Ocean

    She is the Ocean

    How do we know the sea deeply,
    This vast accompaniment to shore?
    In truth … never so completely,
    By acquaintance; nothing more.
    In her shallows, at water’s edge,
    Where lapping waves decay,
    Her ripples sound a common pledge,
    Her splash has much to say.
    At deeper depths, in rougher seas,
    Where waves compound their force,
    Fathom not her vagaries,
    Nor delve her inner source.
    . She is the ocean, of seven seas construed,
    . To each apply the notion of independent mood.

    © Tim Grace, 16 February 2011

    To the reader: Surges of emotion modify our moods. In the shallows we enjoy the ripples that tickle us out of tedium. We take pleasure in the tease of a dying wave. But with a rising tide there comes a wash of new temperament. Playfulness retreats. An ankle deep sensation casts us into deeper thought. The seaward message is relentless with warning and alarm… take care.

    To the poet: Marshall McLuhan coined ‘the medium is the message’ to illustrate that content is transformed through the process of communication. The context of content influences interpretation. The written word is a poet’s content, the medium is speech. Through speech a poem is unpacked, given emphasis; made sharp, made blunt, given gloss or dulled.

     

    she is the ocean she is the ocean

     

  • With Due Regard

    With Due Regard

    As much as work describes me,
    I resist its total claim,
    It’s one book in the library,
    With others in the frame.
    It’s not that I resent my work,
    Or treat it with disdain,
    I do my best, try not to shirk,
    I tolerate its strain.
    The daily grind, I grin and bare,
    There’s value in its fibre,
    But I keep in mind, that without care,
    I’m swallowed by this tiger.
    . With due regard and balanced ration,
    . Labor hard and toil with passion.

    © Tim Grace, 14 February 2011

    To the reader: Time off work, an extended break, triggers the benefits of rest and reveals another side of me. The weight of expectation lifts, the daily grind softens, and the pace of life eases. How much of myself is defined by me at work; not at rest or play. Me at my most industrious; that busy highly driven self, is that the best of me. The non-working part of me is just as creative, just as inspirational but so rarely applied as my description.

    To the poet: An investigation of self. A matter of I-dentification. How much ‘I’ will a reader tolerate. A poet is responsible for sharing ‘I’ statements that can be generalised. To extract any mention of self from a poem constructs an aloof voice Too much introspection reads like self-indulgent therapy. At some point there’ll be a happy ‘me’dium.

     

    due regard due regard

     

  • Manufractured

    Manufractured

    The world in pieces,
    Colours combining,
    Clarity increases,
    With distance defining.
    The world segmented,
    Kaleidoscopic split
    Patterns augmented,
    With nibbling fit,
    The field of view,
    The focal range,
    The tonal hue,
    With angles change.
    .    Impressed and enraptured,
    .    The mosaic is manufractured.

    © Tim Grace, 12 February 2011

    To the reader: Cathedral ceilings find counterbalance in floors of magnificent mosaic. The segmental nature of a mosaic adapts itself to undulating and odd-shaped perimeters. Tile by tile in decoration. A surface treatment deliberately fractured; pre-empting the impact of traffic and age. A strong and versatile solution. Suited to subtlety …impressionistic, geometric, kaleidoscopic. Betters with age.

    To the poet: Small pieces of text. Small phrases, reliant on each other for meaning. As with a mosaic, this sonnet begins with the micro-meaning of individual words. As the aperture widens the macro-meaning reveals itself as a play of words; built around the concept of ‘manufracturing’… to build from broken pieces. Meaningless becomes meaningful; fixed.

    manufractured
    manufractured