One More Sonnet

Tag: Arts

  • Best at Dawn

    Best at Dawn

    To a hillside, a crop of houses cling,
    overlook a harbour; a city-port.
    White-washed walls absorb a sunlit morning.
    Train-tracks and traffic underline a thought.
    Birds, gulls and terns, etch the sky with traces
    of a coastal breeze; pelicans are drifting.
    There’s a long wharf with cargo in cases.
    Cranes begin a day of heavy-lifting.
    Yellow bus gives way to a staggered start;
    the zig-zag pattern of a day takes shape.
    A city’s plan runs the way of nature’s art;
    suburban portrait draws a cityscape.
    . From the suburbs a cityscape is drawn;
    . sunshine (as the artist) draws best at dawn.

    © Tim Grace, 21 January 2013

    To the reader: A new day deserves a fresh dawn. The shadows of yesterday cast aside. And so it was in New Zealand when I woke to a brand new vista. The harbour was already abuzz with import/export activity; an intermingling of nature and business trading terms of interests. The hillside-suburbs, slow to wake, were beginning to stir. Life resembling art…

    To the poet: … and who was the artist? The sun. In every respect, this consummate colourist was controlling the medium. The pallet was crisp, not saturated, with cool blues and deep greens. A yellow hue was attending to dark remnants of lingering night. The solid canvas of horizontal swatches became animated with small features of meandering life … drifting, sifting; lifting the day on its way to a zenith noon.

    Best at Dawn
    Best at Dawn
  • Words Have Accents

    Words Have Accents

    Words have accents, some subtle, some severe.
    The urban banter of a rough-cut brogue.
    The soft rounded lilt that lovers revere.
    Words are responsive to fashion and vogue.
    They’re tandem partners in a common phrase,
    They’re crude expletives in a colourful verse,
    They’re gushing gaffs in superlative praise.
    They can mumble, grumble; be short and terse.
    Words can shatter dreams, mend a broken heart,
    Words have expression, and so resemble
    the whispering wind and the dashing dart,
    the babbling brook and the leaves atremble
    . Words have accents, some are rich and refined,
    . others more guttural, milled in a grind.

    © Tim Grace, 26 December 2012

    To the reader: For such little things words can pack a powerful punch. The expletive works well alone; but on the whole words are social creatures. In pairs they hyphenate easily; in threes and fours they craft a competent phrase; beyond that their assemblage constitutes a sentence. In the world of words context is everything, for without association words are reduced to meaningless sounds; mere babble vibrating through space.

    To the poet: In poetry, the word is a versatile instrument; adaptable and flexible. Adaptive in a syntactic sense, it transitions from active to descriptive modes with ease. As a flexible element, the word’s semantic nuances are powerful attachments to emotional strings. Between the right and wrong choice of word there’s a world of difference. A bit like chemistry … where a combination of elements can be volatile; evaporative and explosive.

    Words Have Accents
    Words Have Accents
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/JHLMGBwAbhA
  • Animosity

    Animosity

    No curse more worse than animosity.
    Hateful envy, a pox of bilious bile,
    jealous anger, savage ferocity,
    pity gone putrid, ugly and vile.
    Desires become cravings; converted
    wants become needs; crudely, love becomes lust;
    good things strangled, hopelessly perverted…
    so steel turns to rust, and diamonds to dust.
    Animosity will foul its own nest:
    over-paint a masterpiece, self-corrupt
    the elegance of beauty crudely dressed.
    The curse of animosity – one-upped!
    . The success of others (not yours to own)
    . If not resolved, will turn a heart to stone.

    © Tim Grace, 22 December 2012

    To the reader: Animosity is a stifling energy. Characteristically, it’s an emotional state that directs spiteful anger at a rival who has gained a perceived ‘unfair advantage’ in the relationship. From small issues problems fester and spiral out of all proportion. Resolution is unlikely to occur without some helpful intervention that manages to recalibrate the tension. Animosity is more often quelled than it is quashed.

    To the poet: A sonnet that taps into raw-emotion needs to anchor its rancour hard and fast. There’s little room to escalate slowly. The first line: “no curse more worse than animosity” unravels the expose; and the avalanche torrents forth. In a poem like this, the rush of verbiage is propelled on the back of poetic ploys that are easily translated into expected rhythms and solid rhymes; given a liberal dose of assonance, consonance and alliteration.

    Animosity
    Animosity
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/sTxBOzjxDn4
  • Shine

    Shine

    Shine through the darkness, penetrate the night.
    Dawn beneath the shadows that overcast
    those slumbering diamonds desperate for light;
    uncovered memories, bejewelled to last.
    Shine between the cracks of that shattered dream.
    Gloss over edges that diminish hope,
    polish up the threads of a golden seam;
    discovered passions, rekindled to cope.
    Shine upon a steel breeze, amend its mood.
    Take the black dog and heat its cold intent
    with warmth; the antidote is attitude;
    recovered talents, refashioned to vent.
    . Depression’s remedy is a light touch,
    . a glimmer of hope, that will shine as such.

    © Tim Grace, 2 December 2012

    To the reader: For the discerning adolescent ear, Pink Floyd filled a ‘head space’ that responded to the musical dynamics of depth and complexity. The sound of other bands, including the Beatles, could tolerate the phonic limitations of an old record player. But, to best appreciate a Pink Floyd album it had to be dust-free and scratch-less. With the right hi-fi system, Pink Floyd could transform a bedroom into a theatre of ethereal sound.

    To the poet: Pink Floyd’s first album ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ (1967) contains eight lyrics penned by Syd Barrett. Read as poetry, it’s clear Syd knew how to craft a song; he knew the rules, and had a versatile bank of ‘tips and tricks’ in his wordsmith quiver. As an exercise, I wrote this sonnet as a sampler; at the same time acknowledging the traumatic demise of a shining star … condensed to a ‘crazy diamond’.

    Shine Shine
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/qGd1eiLKY_8
  • I Love You

    I Love You

    From love, love borrows that which love has lent.
    When love says: “I love you” love says the same.
    And so love is a circular argument.
    It’s a roundabout affair; claim for claim.
    “Good night” love says, the same is love’s reply.
    “Sweet dreams” love says, anointed with a kiss.
    “Sleep tight” love says, so starts a lullaby.
    When love says “I’m here” there’s nothing amiss;
    Love’s partner is love, together complete.
    It’s through confirmation that love endures.
    “I love you” said once, deserves repeat.
    “I love you” and “I love you” reassures.
    . Upon love’s roundabout, spins love’s intent,
    . With each return, there rides love’s sentiment.

    © Tim Grace, 18 November 2012

    To the reader: The structure of the heart has it working two-parts as one. The circulation of a life-force makes it the ideal metaphor for ‘love-central’. With responsive rhythm, the heart renews and refreshes. It’s no coincidence then, that living and loving are such united motivations. Together they fulfil our physical and emotional needs; one fuels, the other fires.

    To the poet: Sentiment is an ink that never fully dries. Its wet nature bleeds and smudges at the slightest touch. To control the flow of sentiment takes the skill of a water-colourist. The risk of over-working is ever-present; accident and incident are heavy handed partners. Sentiment is a translucent medium that washes over page and canvas with diffusive effect; a touch too much and recognition is lost.

    I Love You I Love You
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/oyCgQtCXXn8
  • Fears Not Dust

    Fears Not Dust

    Degas fears not dust, but the hand of man.
    His art is that of motion not of bronze.
    His shuttered frame’s neither still nor frozen.
    From moment to moment his art responds.
    He seeks the illusion of transfered weight;
    forward leaning movements lunging at space.
    He seeks expression through a fluid state;
    liquid locomotion spilled into place.
    See the bathing women, the jockeyed horse,
    the ballerinas giving curtain call,
    the girls with flowers, and himself of course;
    none paint a picture showing life at stall.
    . The subtle suggestion of swing and sway,
    . Creates the impression of dance at play.

    © Tim Grace, 4 November 2012

    To the reader: “What’s more static than a statued dancer?” Degas was challenged by the limitations of ‘snapshot’ art. The idea of capturing a static scene brought him little interest. His more intriguing challenge came through art that suggested something beyond the instant of creation. Through pose and posture, Degas gave his subjects impetus; his scenes momentum. Therein lies the power of degas … in every moment there’s fresh potential.

    To the poet: Like moths to light, experts love controvacy:”Degas, one suspects, was turning in his grave. Before his death in 1917, he repeatedly expressed concern that charlatans might highjack his legacy by casting his sculptures in bronze and selling them to collectors, and is said to have told his fellow painter Georges Rouault, ‘What I fear most is not dust but the hand of man.’” And that article in Bloomberg Business (by William D Cohan) triggered my poetic interest.

    Fears Not Dust Fears Not Dust
    Picture Source:
    http://www.medici.tv/mobile/la-petite-danseuse-de-degas-patrice-bart-world-premiere-opera-garnier