One More Sonnet

Tag: Arts

  • Chorus

    Chorus

    Through chorus, we express the universe:
    as the single voice of a crowded thought;
    as spontaneous chant without rehearse;
    as the wisdom of mobs and witty retort.
    Through chorus, our communal silk is spun:
    as tapestries sewn of collective thread;
    as blankets of comfort layered as one;
    as patches of cloth on a quilted bed.
    Through chorus, we conduct a life-long beat:
    as rhythmic stimulants that resonate;
    as echoes bouncing through dancing feet;
    as musical moments that modulate.
    . The frequency of life is harmonic
    . Through chorus, we tune-in to its tonic.

    © Tim Grace, 20 May 2012

    To the reader: As a young child, of the 1960s, I grew up amidst a communal chorus; love was the word. Crammed into every three minute pop-song was a catchy refrain; a repeatable, memorable melody that bounced either side of a metrical verse. In that distant world the chorus was an invitation; a come together crescendo that united a generational voice. In full, the memory of a song fades; what’s left is the chorus.

    To the poet: The fourteen lines of a sonnet easily convert into the simple pop-song formula of three verses (quatrains) and a repeatable chorus (from the final couplet). This sonnet tinkers with that relationship. Upon reflection, the result shows the difference between poetry and song-writing. A lyric needs room to lilt and requires very little internal strength. With too much internal strength melody struggles to sing.

    Chorus
    Chorus
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/9eUowTV0ZFA
  • A Fallen Thought

    A Fallen Thought

    I have swept the path of last Summer’s leaves;
    it’s late April, so prepare the parade.
    Salute the fallen; sombre Autumn heaves
    a sigh; recalls the cover of green shade.
    Now, on my shoulder rests a golden leaf.
    What am I to do? Brush it to the ground?
    How do I interpret this small motif:
    as commemorative fall; from tree unbound?
    Between my shoulder and the ground there’s space,
    just enough space, to think about good cause.
    There’s time, just enough time, to put in place
    a thought… a moment for reflective pause.
    . In fluttering leaves there’s a story told,
    . it’s a narrative, that turns green to gold.

    © Tim Grace, 23 April 2012

    To the reader: In temperate Australia, the autumnal month of April is adorned with commemorative symbolism. The imagery includes bravery and mateship woven into wreathes of green and gold. As the leaves of Summer flutter softly to the ground, there’s a sombre passage of reflection; space and time to remember the fallen before winter turns the foliage to mush. Those who fought for peace, now rest in peace… lest we forget.

    To the poet: A nice sonnet that turns a small personal incident into something more socially significant; and that’s the point of poetry. Through the obvious we discover truth; between gaps we discover opportunity; from now we interpret the moment – but only if we take notice. As poets, we need to observe what is and isn’t happening; for between these occurrences speaks possibility… through the poet’s eye we imagine the universe.

     

    A Fallen Thought
    A Fallen Thought
    Picture Sources:
    1. http://youtu.be/E56YcMbnCO4
    2. http://youtu.be/eY3ASysJfCQ

     

  • Angling

    Angling

    All I did was drop a line, nothing more
    than simply give you cause to contemplate.
    It was not my chin that dropped, not my jaw
    that took umbrage; not me who bit the bait.
    You could have let it go, let it dangle.
    Instead, you gave it a tug, you tested
    the line; turned what was slack into tangle.
    It was you who floundered, then protested.
    Nonetheless, you did nothing to resist
    it’s ascorbic tang; and so, there you hang,
    dangling from a string of words, a long list
    of ponderings that promulgated pang.
    . What lures fish from the safety of rocks?
    . It’s the slightly plausible paradox.

    © Tim Grace, 21 January 2012

    To the reader: It doesn’t take much to create a fuss over a line of words. Retracting that string of thought is difficult; it gets snagged so easily. On a good day a contentious thought might be openly aired; on a bad day it becomes a most enticing deep-water bait. As it sinks a small school of fish nibbles its edges; but then, along comes a shark with far bigger intentions. Discretion being the better part of valour decrees the warranted loss of hook, line and sinker… one should never angle for a fight.

    To the poet: This sonnet did follow an argument over the previous sonnet regarding silos. Why two people would choose to angrily debate the virtues of a silo I don’t know. Nonetheless, it spawned a good piece of purgative poetry. The poem has some satisfying sub-elements that I enjoyed merging into its deeper layers of construction; for later in depth analysis.

     

    angling Angling
    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/rG1xOUIykhY

     

  • Grain of Truth

    Grain of Truth

    There’s not a grain of truth in what they’ve claimed.
    They have cultivated a nonsense, so
    much so, the silo has been besmirched, defamed.
    It’s been compared to a Balkan State, no
    more so will I let this grievance pass
    untested, unquestioned; taken as read.
    What they have reasoned is simply a farce;
    a mischievous lie, it has to be said:
    The silo is nothing like a locked vault;
    has nothing to do with isolation.
    Through misinterpretation comes this fault:
    silos are hubs in communication.
    . Break not the silo, more strengthen its link.
    . It is through the silo that systems think.

    © Tim Grace, 18 January 2012

    To the reader: The history of grain-silos is interesting. They date back to storage pits in Greece around the 8th Century BC. In a modern sense, they took their vertical stance in the 1800s; significantly, attached to a transport system. Understood as critical components of flow in an agricultural system, their virtual counterparts are much maligned in dysfunctional bureaucracies. An office that stores but does not distribute its information is mistakenly labelled a silo; it does nothing to deserve that label.

    To the poet: Mounting a comprehensive argument in fourteen lines is problematic. Without much room for justification the point can be interpreted as a poke. Diatribes tend to be like that; one way polemics. In some ways a static container disconnected from further adaptation – a Balkan State! As much as you might disagree with my defence of the silo; there’s little likelihood of me responding to your rational alternative. You could, of course, leave a comment…

     

    grain of truth grain of truth

     

  • One More

    One More

    One more than many. One amongst the crowd.
    Of all amassed, of all assembled,
    you are the one of all who’s most endowed
    with the touch of difference; unresembled:
    uncopied, unmatched, unequalled; unique.
    You are the diamond in a crown of jewels.
    You are the highest mount; a lover’s peak.
    You are the exception that breaks all rules.
    You are the singular presence, where dwells
    perfection, where at one point all things meet.
    Within you perfect love is made, where swells
    affection; through your oneness all things complete.
    . At one with love you have tamed love’s thunder,
    . you have brought to heel cupid’s brand of wonder.

    © Tim Grace, 10 February 2012

    To the reader: Being the chosen one is flattering. It’s nice to be given attention; to be drawn out of the crowd as something special. But quite a perverse honour if you’re an admirer’s anonymous obsession. More so, if you are the one that through compare is beyond compare. Do you actually exist, or are you an imagined tool that consummates desire? Is the relationship unrequited? No matter, the infatuation delivers a brand of private climax. (WS – Sonnet 154)

    To the poet: Depending on emphasis, the meaning of “one more lovely” is quite different to “one more lover”. And there’s the invitation to play with words. In both senses the expressions are literal but have a figurative overlay that creates room for interpretation. So “one more – than many” can be a numerical statement offering infinite potential. Or, “one – more than many” can be a flattering statement offering distinction beyond the norm. Both interpretations are at one with my “one more” intent … (TG – Sonnet 155)

     

    image

  • Beyond Finished

    Beyond Finished

    To say that all is finished, all is spent,
    means nothing in the greater scheme of things.
    For in that scheme there is but one intent:
    “waste nothing” – as from compost new life springs.
    What of that old house that the ground recalls?
    What of that empire in its fallen state?
    What of that fashion that today appals?
    What of good reason wasted in debate?
    All of these might be finished, done with use,
    stripped of cause, drained of substance; as conceived
    they might be buried dead or dangling loose;
    but as time shall choose – they shall be retrieved.
    . Beyond finished there lies a new frontier,
    . furnished in the garb of a golden year.

    © Tim Grace, 14 March 2012

    To the reader: Mistakenly, finished can be considered a terminal point of arrival. A statement of completion that declares an ending. In reality, nothing ends its course; nothing is divorced from what’s to come. Next, is the consequence of an expanding universe; until Time contracts there shall always be a new beginning… a next time to come. And so, in conclusion, consider this sum … there’ll always be “one more sonnet” to come.

    To the poet: Almost done. I know what it’s like to write 154 sonnets; one more and I’ve achieved my goal; one more sonnet and I’m finished? The challenge was self-imposed and given a few rules the disciplined process was fairly painless. The two-year rule was gruelling but necessary. The minimal use of “like” as a tool for metaphor kept me anchored to a direct narrative. The sonnet is an endlessly adaptable form both generous and forgiving. The sonnet (and my readers) suffered some mutilation along the way but with considerable credit stayed the course.

     

    beyond finished
    beyond finished