One More Sonnet

Tag: Most Read

  • 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
  • The Invisible Thread

    The Invisible Thread

    Spent last evening with invisible thread.
    Beneath a crocheted installation,
    a gossamer of words were spun and said.
    And so wove the night, an incantation
    of elevated thought, lifted to a lilt:
    hoisted on updrafts of spinnakered air.
    As carried by a cello, music spilt
    in generous play; danced without a care.
    Awash with mood, a manuscript of lines
    described the evening and caressed the night.
    Suspended hours – hung – as Art designs:
    poised in proportion for fanciful flight.
    . Spent last evening with invisible thread;
    . an entanglement of thoughts, it could be said.

    © Tim Grace, 1 May 2013

    To the reader: It was the gentle ambiance I remember. My home-town (Canberra) was celebrating its Centenary Year with all manner of auspicious events and occasions. One of which was the launch of a book: The Invisible Thread. An evening of ‘light’ entertainment: readings, interspersed with musical interludes. The invisible thread by nature has an unseen presence; nonetheless, it’s strong with connective pull by association.

    To the poet: In 2011, I wrote a sonnet (TG-S51) on the same theme. It’s interesting to compare the two. The first unravels the concept of ‘thread’ as an object; the second is much more metaphorical in tone. The second sonnet (TG-S220) plays with a thread’s connective symbolism. Both string together a short narrative. By way of footnote, a few edits (recently applied) gave this sonnet some extra tug.

    The Invisible Thread The Invisible Thread
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/xXWbEWBmb3o
  • Artobiography

    Artobiography

    Artobiography – the self-exposed.
    Personal revelation on display:
    persuasions, curiosities disclosed;
    individual leanings that swing and sway.
    Privacy – an open exhibition.
    Voyeurs at large, a see-through medium,
    en masse titillation; imposition;
    pastiche motif; pretensions on parade.
    A synthetic construct, superficial,
    skin-deep patina, costume masquerade;
    disguised reality – artificial.
    . What of art that it adores expression,
    . and yet, so crudely ignores discretion?

    © Tim Grace, 31 March 2013

    To the reader: Exhibitionism or exhibitionist – an empty distinction. The expose of self as art. The narcissist, an introspective voyeur on public display. Made naked for self-amusement. Inside-outside. Flesh-coloured drapes on see-through windows. Shock therapist using auto-simulation as creative medium; seminal concept becomes revelation. Artobiography – a crude craft on revealing canvas.

    To the poet: Inspiration for this sonnet was a documentary on avant-garde art. The various vignettes portrayed a series of self-absorbed indulgences. Confusion over purpose was laid bear. A naked clambering for notoriety; easily achieved through public shock. Nothing more than a sideshow curiosity laying claim to creative space. As a writer, I can appeal to a reader’s instinct for novelty… the forbidden and perverse are easy grabs.

    Artobiography
    Artobiography
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/27w3wR7ofl4
  • Those Who Frown

    Those Who Frown

    What to make of those with humourless wit,
    of those who frown, those who grumble and growl;
    of those who bemoan joy; awkwardly sit
    upon a light-hearted jest with a scowl?
    What to make of those who by nature rile
    against the frivolous; heavily mark
    the wistful as trite and in sombre style
    dismiss the chortle as an errant lark?
    What to make of those with dark demeanour,
    those who do nothing but darken the sky,
    casting shadows on polished patina;
    those who take a dim view of all they spy?
    . These are they who chain good-fun to a cage,
    . and for laughter’s sake, will a smirk engage.

    © Tim Grace, 17 March 2013

    To the reader: Some adults unlearn everything they once knew about fun and laughter; they become morose and sullen. No doubt they have good-reason for such stern reproach of light-hearted follies. Chronic absence of a smile response robs these grumpy souls of the happiness surge delivered by endorphins and triggered by something as simple as a genuine smile. The health benefits of smiling are impressive; so too the social impact of this friendly gesture.

    To the poet: We can take the pursuit of happiness too seriously; drain it of fun and become disheartened. Writing a sonnet can suffer the same chain of events. In its original form this sonnet had an unintelligible middle stanza that was lost in its own search for meaning. The ‘editorial rescue’ ripped out the guts and inserted a verse. The final structure of three verses and a chorus brings me no great joy!

    Those Who Frown Those Who Frown
    Picture Source:
    http://undergroundhealthreporter.com/duchenne-smile-benefits/#axzz3YvMx8Okk
  • 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