One More Sonnet

Tag: Place

  • 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

     

  • The Watched

    The Watched

    If you watch with care there are things to note.
    Things aren’t necessarily the way they seem.
    Within plays there are plays that make remote
    our awareness of hidden plot and theme.
    The secret subtleties of which I speak
    are hard to notice in a moment’s glance;
    they do their utmost not to be unique;
    everything they can to minimise chance
    of being noticed or of standing proud.
    In their script there is no stage nor curtain;
    no theatre, no audience, just a crowd
    made blind to the subtleties of certain.
    . Motion provides a stable place to hide;
    . a refuge for those with disguise applied.

    © Tim Grace, 12 January 2012

    To the reader: In this period of writing, with resident status, I anonymously sat at the same table in a busy inner-city cafe. Daily, I had a vantage point that was unusual for its routine. And so, I began to notice patterns of behaviour that repeated themselves; in particular that of a plain-clothed policeman. His under-cover status relied on a steady flow of unobservant patrons buying “coffee-to-go”. My stability was his exposure… he became visible; he became the watched.

    To the poet: Some poems are stubborn; this is one of them. It’s been over-worked – laboured. As with a drawing that’s been repeatedly repaired, its problems are made all the more obvious. The idea was to locate the object (an under-cover policemen) in a fast flowing stream of subjects (cafe patrons). This stream became an indistinguishable rush of them and they and their; added to by a liberal dose of that.

     

    the watched the watched

     

     

     

  • Summer Storm

    Summer Storm

    Inner city vagrant, he’s in a mood;
    he’s off his head on speed, and paranoid;
    he’s cranky-cross and pumped with attitude;
    all common courtesies are null and void.
    He’s seething with anger, hate and contempt;
    his agitated eyes cast a wide net;
    they pierce deeply and leave no-one exempt;
    all must bare the weight of his drug-fuelled threat:
    “What’s your problem, you faggot, I’ll kill you!
    You want to try me, and see if I won’t?”
    Ignoring him makes it worse, makes him brew;
    he baits your reaction, bites if you don’t.
    . Nothing calms the storm of a derelict mind,
    . puts the rest of us in an awkward bind!

    © Tim Grace, 9 January 2012

    To the reader: Sad or bad … I’m not sure the difference is of immediate concern; best not to engage in a cerebral debate. This moment is all that matters and making the most of it is best handled through instinct. Think too long, about your reaction, and he’ll interpret that as a responsive attack. This manoeuvre is all about a discrete retreat from a phoney-engagement. The contrived incident shatters; he’s gone… elsewhere bound; the summer storm has passed.

    To the poet: A poem like this has to brew with foreboding. The words need to jolt and clash. It has to be an uncomfortable read. It’s an incident report. The cranky context is the third-party defined in the first two words but never again mentioned. What remains is character description. The vagrant storm explodes with verbiage and then passes with no sign of abatement; the relief is an awkward conclusion.

     

    summer storm Summer Storm
    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/pGVZDXDoxnQ

     

  • SummerNats

    SummerNats

    Each year they arrive in seasonal swarms;
    they work in car-size packs of four or five;
    one driver, one chick and his social norms:
    Lead-foot Larry, Sheila, Kevin and Clive.
    They stand over engines, argue the make;
    they ogle the curves with reference to style;
    they kick the rubber and burn-out the brake;
    allude to perfection with a wry smile!
    It’s a rev-heads pilgrimage – SummerNats.
    It’s a week away with the girls at home.
    A petrol-fuelled assemblage of cool cats.
    A homage to fresh ‘tats’ and polished chrome.
    . Driven by the piston, the muffler’s grunt!
    . It’s all about horsepower, and what’s up front!

    © Tim Grace, 8 January 2012

    To the reader: Culture’s a construction built upon common codes of practice. So, once again, I’m drawn to write about people and events in time and place. In this case, the annual gathering of motor enthusiasts (rev-heads). The Summer Nationals (SummerNats) are an Australian celebration of the car at its ultimate best; it’s all about performance – and with that comes theatre. The car, the driver and the entourage are all on display – and don’t they love it!

    To the poet: A small and dense narrative, unfamiliar to a reader, needs a strong and sequential thread. This sonnet reads like a list of snap-shots; each line transitioning to the next with a quick dissolve. As a series of frames the story develops – one line at a time – each line being responsible for explaining and expanding upon those that surround it. In keeping with the style, it was important to have a final couplet that summer-ized the plot.

    summernats SummerNats
    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/Oyy8zEOMfP4

     

     

  • Happy New Year

    Happy New Year

    Standing on the other side of last year.
    I’m yet to move, or even lightly tread
    upon the surface of a new frontier;
    I’m yet to commit to the days ahead.
    I’m debating the size of the first stride,
    contemplating its gravity, its weight
    and direction. I am yet to decide
    upon its meaning – and there’s the debate;
    there’s the question, that has me standing still:
    am I to leap forward without reserve,
    throw caution to the wind, let milk spill,
    and in its flow, let go this timid nerve?
    . The first step is steeped with expectation,
    . bound to itself – gripped with hesitation.

    © Tim Grace, 1 January 2012

    To the reader: Happy New Year – reassurance really – in the face of hesitant acceptance. We charge our glasses, count down the seconds and gaze skyward; fireworks outshine the brightest constellations – a new year is born! As decreed, it’s with resolve we all step forth, each with our own bundle of wishes and aspirations for the coming year. But old habits die hard… too soon this fresh stride becomes last year’s steady gait; and the stroll through life continues its wanderous way!

    To the poet: Playing with words is the joy of poetry. Interlocking syntax and semantics. Wrestling word against word, phrase against phrase until a truesful fit is found; one surrenders its meaning the other its virtue; tension and abeyance ever present. The fight can be brutal (not brittle) always honest; best of all bloody and bruising. A good poem reflects the good fight; nothing comes easy so it’s best we enjoy the struggle.

     

    happy new year
    http://youtu.be/ayA95XsbJeU

    Photo Source: http://youtu.be/ayA95XsbJeU

     

  • Steady State

    Steady State

    As weeks become months, so months become years;
    and so it is that all things become one.
    It’s why things merge as distinction nears,
    It’s why things flow and with rivers run.
    Between two points we imagine spaces,
    and yet between two trees a forest grows.
    We invent voids between distant places;
    recognise columns, but ignore the rows.
    For convenience sake we subdivide
    the river of life into segments small,
    then wonder why the stream cannot provide
    baskets of abundance; plenty for all.
    . current – a ready date, that’s here and now.
    . current – a steady rate, an endless vow.

    Tim Grace, 31 December 2011

    To the reader: Systems within systems. A constant stream of energy feeding the fire from within. The onward flow is effortless. The complete constancy of life is the travellers joy; being at one with the journey is the real destination. Too much concentration on the stop-start details and we become distracted; events become activities; life becomes staccato: “signifies a note of shortened duration, separated from the note that may follow by silence”.

    To the poet: The flow of any poem is important; all the more so if your poem is about flow itself. In writing a poem, the internal voice is constantly providing feedback on the inner and outer workings of a script. Most of my sonnets develop over a few days of working. In that time, the lines are re-read hundreds of times until I’m happy with every element of connective tissue. To some extent, through rehearsal and revision, my spontaneity is contrived.

     

    steady state
    steady state