One More Sonnet

Tag: Events

  • Twelve Questions

    Twelve Questions

    What about the drawing of distinctions?
    Should they be blurred to favour tolerance?
    Is the line concise on contradictions?
    What advice does logic bring to difference?
    How are we to judge without conclusion?
    How so is ‘that from this’ to be defined?
    Is ‘to know’ a hoax, a grand delusion?
    Are all things to be boldly underlined?
    What of two-minds that claim a single-thought?
    What of the question that has no answer?
    What’s nothing but the invention of naught?
    What’s more static than a statued dancer?
    . It’s not the answer that in truth divides,
    . More so the question that in doubt resides.

    © Tim Grace, 3 October 2012

    To the reader: The tolerant society is a highly abstracted notion. Those who thrive in liberal communities put aside rigid structures and tolerate difference. In this relaxed and generous environment customs and codes of practice can be questioned and answers refined; ethics evolve. Social contracts are loose and forgiving with cultures flourishing side-by-side. In this social order we prefer the question (process) resist the answer (product) as we crave the experience… all lines are blurred.

    To the poet: Earlier, I broke Shakespeare’s sixty-sixth sonnet into a series of twelve sonnets; expanding on his list of grumpy grievances. Likewise, in this sonnet (of mine) I lay down the foundation for a longer exploration of ‘difference and distinction’; again, in twelve parts. The project took a couple of months to complete with other themes and interests put on hold… to what end, I’ll let you judge.

     

    Twelve Questions Twelve Questions

     

  • In the now…

    In the now…

    Be learn’d in the now, be connected
    to what is your current fascination.
    Take from today all that is collected,
    make this the lot, the plot of your creation.
    Expect nothing of tomorrow’s promise,
    and give not tomorrow today’s excuse.
    Be of the moment; and then so, with ease
    make invisible time’s disappointed fuse.
    Have in mind only this day’s food for thought,
    for tomorrow’s feast is an empty plate,
    nothing more than that, a recipe fraught
    with expectation; do not take the bait.
    . Be absorbed in the now, be besotted,
    . take from today all that is allotted.

    © Tim Grace, 28 September 2012

    To the reader: Living for the day and seizing the day are different concepts. Living for the day assumes no connection with days gone or days to come. Seizing the day treats the present as an opportunity for future construction. To be absorbed by ‘this day’ for its own sake is the fun park approach to life; the alternative, is a nature park relationship with time’s daily dose. In the fun park we have an apportioned amount of time to cram the day with pleasure; what’s not done will never be done. Tomorrow is the same day of rides repeated.

    To the poet: It’s from the nature park a poet learns not be concerned about tomorrow’s feast of words; we can not guess the menu. Tomorrow’s empty plate will fill; just as every other. The better care we take of today’s nature park the better will be tomorrow’s narrative. Today is tomorrow’s write of passage. Poetry thrives on adaptation to its current concerns… it can not graze on tomorrow’s grass; for that field is yet to grow.

     

    in the now In The Now
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/GMtcDa_7NHU

     

  • Water’s Edge

    Water’s Edge

    A sunlit jetty, jutting out to sea;
    a wall of rocks resist the lapping tide;
    the Water’s Edge cafe is serving tea;
    two tethered yachts are dancing side-by-side.
    Waves absorb the jetty, drink to the bar;
    it’s an all-day breakfast, a seafood quiche;
    jelly-fish, tangled nets and caviar;
    loose jib on the Cactus Wren breaks its leash;
    a docile doberman lounges at large,
    waitress brings him water in a blue dish;
    father and son wave to a passing barge;
    a day without limits… just as you’d wish.
    . Today’s consumption will be time well spent,
    . awash with moments, as were sort of meant.

    © Tim Grace, 15 September 2012

    To the reader: To the sound of gently lapping water I wander the coastal promenade; find an outdoor table; it’s perched at the end of a short jetty. With the morning sun’s warmth on my back I open my eyes to the scenery at large. At water’s edge, a cafe has delivered the first of many all-day breakfasts. Behind me two yachts acknowledge as passing wave. Eyes shift, a waitress is delivering a blue bowl of water to a black dog. Scene closes with a father and his young son greeting the black dog with a ‘good morning’ pat-and-chat.

    To the poet: Light extends a poet’s vision into the realms of colour and movement. The crisp light of dawn is by nature poetic. With fresh aspect it exposes familiar forms to new interpretation. Dawn’s crisp exposure, fleeting as it is, delivers a lasting impression. Beyond an hour or so of rising its particular beauty is diffused to a general sense of mundane utility. The day is best seized by the touch of dawn.

     

     

    Water's Edge
    Water’s Edge
  • Dog House

    Dog House

    Where live those demons, where do they reside?
    Long-stay lodgers, cluttering cavities,
    residential tenants, hard to abide,
    hard to accommodate … depravities.
    Where live those phobias that tease and taunt?
    Reckless wranglers, robbers of niche and nest.
    Thieves, gypsies and thieves, that endlessly haunt
    contentment; pull upon the softest leash.
    Where live those mongrels, that doggedly drain
    all sense from sensibility, larking
    larrikins, bedroom bandits, once again
    prove themselves mad, yes… barking!
    . Where lives lunacy, where does it locate?
    . It lives in a kennel, barks at the gate.

    © Tim Grace, 15 September 2012

    To the reader: I think dog-ness needs to be recognised as a disability. My canine residents are daily afflicted by a host of phobias; translated into all manner of quirky behaviours. Between stimulus and response their processing is spontaneous and erratic; predictably, the product is most often a “dog’s breakfast”. As chaos calms, there’s a small sense of reflection but never enough to suggest that sanity will ever prevail.

    To the poet: As a descriptive piece, this poem delivers a litany of pet perturbances. I love my dogs but they do have some very annoying habits that warrant occasional relegation to the metaphorical dog-house. Obviously, it was important to workshop the sonnet. I’m happy to report that both dogs agreed it was a perfect likeness of the other.

     

    Dog House Dog House

     

  • Brittle Surface

    Brittle Surface

    Then there’s the other playground, hidden
    from the cast of eyes, from the field of view.
    Given shape of whispers, a forbidden
    terrain that no survey could map as true.
    Due regard, a somewhat wise precaution.
    As with a grain of truth in rumour’s mill,
    this place has no scale of good proportion.
    All things can be ground to a common swill:
    ’til there’s nothing left of confidence,
    just the remnants of dignity, respect,
    and honour; nothing but shallow pretence,
    a bastion of moral poverty … wrecked.
    . Play, ground away, under spiteful attack,
    . Brittle is its surface; ready to crack

    © Tim Grace, 22 August 2012

    To the reader: As a school principal, I watched with horror the spiteful subterranean attack of girls on each others’ friendships. Damage to dignity inflicts a cruel wound; one that festers long after its initiation. The attacks were often highly orchestrated and finely targeted at a hapless victim. The remedy was to some extent exposure but humiliation of the perpetrator was fuel to the fire. Reconciliation was the broker’s joy!

    To the poet: This sonnet was constructed to highlight the fragility of a playground. Designed with a sharp tongue in mind. An outpouring of emotion, prone to pretence and posturing. A string of words nuanced with nastiness. If you’re listening carefully there’s a reference to self-pity; an obfuscation, that distracts attention from cause and effect. The mere suggestion of ill-will is an affront worthy of indignation. Words just words… I don’t think so.

     

    Brittle Surface Brittle Surface
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/YYfxfudoE_k

     

  • Bedlam’s Gift

    Bedlam’s Gift

    Do you remember the playground, that place
    of inherited rules, rough and tumbled
    into kingdoms with short reign: King, Ace;
    no certainty of claim – empires crumbled?
    Humbled victors became losers. The once
    proud owner of a patch relegated;
    made to start again. A bottom-up dunce
    stripped of position, mocked and berated;
    slated; given no slack; given what comes;
    given the licence to begin again;
    to re-climb; to reclaim status. That’s bedlam’s
    gift, that’s the playground I remember then…
    . No need to keep the playground free of dust.
    . The prissy playground is a breach of trust.

    © Tim Grace, 18 August 2012

    To the reader: The school yard is a swirling patchwork of colours and shapes. The blacktop accommodates the hoops and high bouncing balls; white slashes of squared concrete cater to the criss-cross of tennis balls; and the green-grassed fields squarely frame the arc of foot propelled projectiles. All of this in the context of highly competitive play; skin in the game delivers respect and reputation. In my memory, it was sometimes fun, sometimes fair… very rarely perfect.

    To the poet: A jumble of words. A connected tangle of playful poetics. This sonnet works in three fields that overplay the shape of simple four-line stanzas. Each stanza ends with a rhyme that begins the next; text creating an extra ripple of repetition. Then there’s the enjambement that carelessly bounces over boundaries; a breach of rules; edgy, annoying but fair play.

     

    Bedlam's Gift Bedlam’s Gift
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/ul3cmqXz5vU