One More Sonnet

Tag: Arts

  • Five Starlings

    Five Starlings

    A cool morning breeze, whispers crisp and sharp.
    Dappled shadows scattered in commotion.
    Rustling leaves give voice to a scratching harp.
    Splash of mauve begins the day’s devotion.
    Mottled yellow, wattled gold, rusted bark.
    The hint of blue horizon, just a glimpse.
    Canopied layers flicker; light and dark.
    A symphony of birds in soundscape scrimps.
    A fresh gust agitates a squawk of wing.
    Palm fronds, dry with age, hang-glide to landing.
    Metronome branches in pendulum swing.
    . Five starlings make an oddly mark in time.
    . Give cause for notice of the sun in climb.

    © Tim Grace, 4 October 2013

    To the reader: A fresh scene triggers interest. And so with heightened sensitivity, the watchful mind becomes alert to novel observations. The play of light and colour, along with the sound of movement interact to become a new definition of time and place. Small characters emerge from the static scene; branches swing and swish; birds flit and flirt; a mauve cloud is tickled by a golden ray of morning light; the sun lifts the curtain on a new day.

    To the poet: If you listen, visual landscapes are also aural soundscapes. Together, sight and sound form the focal points of this situational sonnet. Considered as one layer, the visual element has been receded to bring forward the sounds of nature waking to a new dawn. The first version of this sonnet was simply a list of of fourteen observations, which I later over-dubbed with rhythm and rhyme; to satisfying effect. I like this sonnet.

    Five Starlings
    Five Starlings
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/dcyzz-UKg4I
  • Containment Lines

    Containment Lines

    Containment lines are none the worse for wear.
    Tide has turned and she was not washed to sea.
    Save for watermarks, she’s all in good repair.
    With the swell came contentment’s remedy.
    At tide’s turning the surge has been subdued.
    The rhythmic waves have left her satisfied.
    Diminishing ripples resolve her mood.
    She savours the last splash while things subside.
    There’ll be no rush of outward-tide; no haste.
    Embraced in slow-resolve, just as supposed.
    She awaits her resolution; slow-paced.
    She is reassembled; again composed.
    . As would appear, her pleasures come in waves;
    . for every pleasure spent, so too she saves.

    © Tim Grace, 1 October 20133

    To the reader: Mostly, her interests are absorbed by daily routine. The satisfaction of orderly progression keeps her occupied; and on the whole content. Once in a while, when momentum allows, she stops to pause; to recalibrate her sense of self. She loosens the fabric of her day. The touch of reconnection is slow and satisfying; emptiness is resolved.

    To the poet: Of two minds, I was watching a small row-boat tugging on its rope by the shore; a ripple of waves repeatedly lapped at its sides. Short of giggling, the nicely-shaped boat did what it could to hold its dignity but every now and again, in shear delight, it shuddered with relief as the rhythm of waves washed away it tension. Art is a beautiful thing.

    Containment Lines
    Containment Lines
  • An Empty Chair

    An Empty Chair

    The objectified ‘that’ – too anonymous
    to hold the interest of a poet’s eye.
    Too without likeness to ever be ‘this’.
    Too void of character to qualify.
    The unsatisfied ‘that’ – ever restless,
    desperate for that substance, that gives it cause
    to be anything more than a congress
    of possibility; clutching at straws.
    That which is nothing in particular,
    in simplistic terms, featureless and vague,
    untitled portraits, coarse and granular,
    nothing in abundance; a poet’s plague.
    . That be a name without a pedigree,
    . all but a claim without veracity.

    © Tim Grace, 26 September 2013

    To the reader: An empty chair. Of itself, nothing more than a well-formed piece of furniture… an object in wait. On occasions it finds its functional fit and serves good purpose as a propositional place holder; a prop. For the most part, though, it signifies posterior potential and the possibility of congress; an invitational artefact… all but a claim without veracity.

    To the poet: That which is featureless lacks identity, it’s dull and anonymous; bland. To some extent a perfect backdrop from which a point of incidental interest can draw attention to itself. As an early morning poet, I often begin my day casting about for such characters of distinction. Often as not, they remain elusive and I’m left to make do with what lies before me … objects, too anonymous to hold the interest of a poet’s eye.

    An Empty Chair An Empty Chair
  • There Are Moments

    There Are Moments

    There are moments when everything makes sense.
    For just a second nothing is at odds.
    Simplicity abounds, becomes immense;
    earns the approval of a thousand gods.
    It’s at that moment, between wake and dream,
    that all things become imaginable;
    all things at once adopt a common theme.
    One point of truth becomes conceivable.
    Clarity of thought is clean-cut and crisp;
    vagaries sharpen so ‘that’ becomes ‘this’;
    images emerge, give shape to a wisp;
    that which is simple, more beautiful is.
    . Where stems the answer to “why is it so?”
    . From the essence … in the presence of flow.

    © Tim Grace, 18 July 2013

    To the reader: If you haven’t had your introduction to the works of Dr Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi (chick sent me high) you owe it to yourself to make that connection. Through this acquaintance you’ll meet yourself at your potential best. As the theory goes, there are deliberate steps you can take on the way to achieving flow; an essence you learn to channel from within a zone of intense satisfaction with your own condition of contentment… in pursuit of happiness.

    To the poet: You can’t bottle flow; it’s a meditative energy, that through active absorption describes a form of fulfilment. My gateway to ‘flow’ is through the comfortable challenge of poetry. Effort, along with challenge, is a necessary ingredient. And so, in the right mix, these energies combine to create a state of self-contained purpose. Flow, by definition, is a dynamic stream of consciousness, coursing its way through mind and soul… in pursuit of happiness.

    There Are Moments There Are Moments
    Picture Source:
    http://www.ted.com/talks/mihaly_csikszentmihalyi_on_flow?language=en#t-33296
  • Renovated Dream

    Renovated Dream

    I’m living in a renovated dream.
    Walls come tumbling down before my eyes.
    Rose-coloured glasses wash away the theme
    of ‘tangerine trees and marmalade skies’.
    Gone is the porter, that plasticine man.
    Gone from his station of gainful employ.
    Gone is the dog-mouse with rice-paper plan.
    So too the drummer, that blue-eyed boy.
    Gone are those characters, lucid and bright.
    Gone with the pictures on ‘green-pepper walls’
    with ‘everything emptying into white…’
    Gone from my reaching; ignoring my calls.
    . I’m living in a renovated dream.
    . Devoid of pattern, of colour and scheme.

    © Tim Grace, 9 July 2013

    To the reader: Through my teenage years I was drawn to lyrics that conjured-up slightly distorted visual images. Masters of the art (John Lennon, Cat Stevens, etc.) wrote convincingly between believable and plausible lines; avoiding a shift onto tracks of complete nonsense. As in vector-distortions the original image is never lost, simply stretched to entice attention. As in camouflage, clever-mimicry replaces the truth. As in this sonnet I’m living in a renovated dream…what is that?

    To the poet: In some forms of deception the skilled-expert successfully arrests disbelief. The magician, the con-man and the poet all use the same ploy of managing expectation. Within bounds, an audience will allow a degree of contrived replacement. As long as the augmentation doesn’t break too many rules that contortion (otherwise that mistake) is overlooked; enjoyed as different.

    Renovated Dream Renovated Dream
    Picture Sources:
    1. http://youtu.be/YSq270lUuZE
    2. http://youtu.be/kea0ghm7Z4E
  • So Be It

    So Be It

    So be it. Luck and chance have had their fun:
    coins flipped, dice tossed, cards dealt with nonchalance.
    So be it. In the end the deed is done;
    that flippant toss invites a strong response.
    As it is. You now have a given stack:
    Heads not tails, six over one; King not Ace
    As it is. No point missing what you lack;
    take what you’re given, put a plan in place.
    Be as may. Accept that which comes to pass.
    Concede to consequence, be resolute.
    Be as may. Be game. Be as bold as brass;
    Become that which by chance allows you route.
    . So be it, as it is, or be as may
    . By way of luck, or chance, it’s yours to play.

    © Tim Grace, 30 June 2013

    To the reader: Educators increasingly talk about gamification of learning through the lens of human psychology. Observation of ‘gamers’ in action shows a persistent response to challenges on the basis of social rewards. A social-gamer gains kudos and reputation for increasing levels of skill; admired by his or her significant community of peers. Behaviours associated with belonging reward the value-adding learner; they are badged with success.

    To the poet: As I move slowly through the editing process, there’s a pattern appearing. When I meet a stubborn-draft (poorly finished) the easiest solution is to rediscover the original hook; and obviously, hang everything off that – as much as it will bear. And so, the three-word stem for every second line allowed this poem to be reframed with some semblance of original inspiration. Making-do with what you’ve got.

    So Be It
    So Be It
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/FeyhpQRQJew