One More Sonnet

Tag: philosophy

  • 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

     

  • 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
  • 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

     

  • Unknown Space

    Unknown Space

    There’s a lot of unknown space inside my head.
    Grey matter takes account of what I know;
    the rest is mere potential, adjusted,
    ready to absorb my interests, to grow
    in possibility, outstretch belief.
    The nothingness inside my head withholds
    information, sometimes allows a brief
    glimpse at what might be. Just flimsy scaffolds
    that bear no weight; hazy inklings at best.
    Suggestions that do nothing more than hint
    at provisional thoughts, points of interest;
    obscurity with nothing as a splint.
    . Is certainty the child of a loose joint?
    . What becomes of nothing is a moot point.

    © Tim Grace, 11 August 2012

    To the reader: The ‘vast voluminous void’ of unknown space inside my head replicates the expanding universe; endlessly capable of absorbing dark matter. Conversion of this mysterious matter into grey matter (useful knowledge) is no easy task; before I know it I’m confused. In the face of quantum leaps I rely on established models of understanding to span the gaps. With insufficient trajectory I fall short of opposite banks and plummet none the wiser.

    To the poet: In the tradition of paired sonnets, this poem partners the previous. Both reference the potential of empty space as a matter of intrigue. In the first of two, the topic was dark matter; in the second, grey matter came into focus. The emptiness of space as a metaphor for nothingness is the gateway into a look at the relationship between confusion and curiosity.

     

    Unknown Space Unknown Space

     

  • 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