One More Sonnet

Tag: Poetry

  • She is the Ocean

    She is the Ocean

    How do we know the sea deeply,
    This vast accompaniment to shore?
    In truth … never so completely,
    By acquaintance; nothing more.
    In her shallows, at water’s edge,
    Where lapping waves decay,
    Her ripples sound a common pledge,
    Her splash has much to say.
    At deeper depths, in rougher seas,
    Where waves compound their force,
    Fathom not her vagaries,
    Nor delve her inner source.
    . She is the ocean, of seven seas construed,
    . To each apply the notion of independent mood.

    © Tim Grace, 16 February 2011

    To the reader: Surges of emotion modify our moods. In the shallows we enjoy the ripples that tickle us out of tedium. We take pleasure in the tease of a dying wave. But with a rising tide there comes a wash of new temperament. Playfulness retreats. An ankle deep sensation casts us into deeper thought. The seaward message is relentless with warning and alarm… take care.

    To the poet: Marshall McLuhan coined ‘the medium is the message’ to illustrate that content is transformed through the process of communication. The context of content influences interpretation. The written word is a poet’s content, the medium is speech. Through speech a poem is unpacked, given emphasis; made sharp, made blunt, given gloss or dulled.

     

    she is the ocean she is the ocean

     

  • With Due Regard

    With Due Regard

    As much as work describes me,
    I resist its total claim,
    It’s one book in the library,
    With others in the frame.
    It’s not that I resent my work,
    Or treat it with disdain,
    I do my best, try not to shirk,
    I tolerate its strain.
    The daily grind, I grin and bare,
    There’s value in its fibre,
    But I keep in mind, that without care,
    I’m swallowed by this tiger.
    . With due regard and balanced ration,
    . Labor hard and toil with passion.

    © Tim Grace, 14 February 2011

    To the reader: Time off work, an extended break, triggers the benefits of rest and reveals another side of me. The weight of expectation lifts, the daily grind softens, and the pace of life eases. How much of myself is defined by me at work; not at rest or play. Me at my most industrious; that busy highly driven self, is that the best of me. The non-working part of me is just as creative, just as inspirational but so rarely applied as my description.

    To the poet: An investigation of self. A matter of I-dentification. How much ‘I’ will a reader tolerate. A poet is responsible for sharing ‘I’ statements that can be generalised. To extract any mention of self from a poem constructs an aloof voice Too much introspection reads like self-indulgent therapy. At some point there’ll be a happy ‘me’dium.

     

    due regard due regard

     

  • Manufractured

    Manufractured

    The world in pieces,
    Colours combining,
    Clarity increases,
    With distance defining.
    The world segmented,
    Kaleidoscopic split
    Patterns augmented,
    With nibbling fit,
    The field of view,
    The focal range,
    The tonal hue,
    With angles change.
    .    Impressed and enraptured,
    .    The mosaic is manufractured.

    © Tim Grace, 12 February 2011

    To the reader: Cathedral ceilings find counterbalance in floors of magnificent mosaic. The segmental nature of a mosaic adapts itself to undulating and odd-shaped perimeters. Tile by tile in decoration. A surface treatment deliberately fractured; pre-empting the impact of traffic and age. A strong and versatile solution. Suited to subtlety …impressionistic, geometric, kaleidoscopic. Betters with age.

    To the poet: Small pieces of text. Small phrases, reliant on each other for meaning. As with a mosaic, this sonnet begins with the micro-meaning of individual words. As the aperture widens the macro-meaning reveals itself as a play of words; built around the concept of ‘manufracturing’… to build from broken pieces. Meaningless becomes meaningful; fixed.

    manufractured
    manufractured

     

  • Loosely Sketched

    Loosely Sketched

    An old man, reads old books,
    On a digital screen…
    While the poet looks,
    At the passing scene…
    Nice man turns to menace,
    Table tennis, with a Chinese grip…
    No crowd of words to pen this,
    Nor would one word equip…
    They walk the promenade, twice,
    They loop the pool, backwards…
    He thinks to himself, quite nice,
    But at best a set of hack words.
    .    Some scenes are easily sketched,
    .    Freely fetched, and loosely stretched.

    © Tim Grace, 10 February 2011

     

    To the reader: Apparently, functional networks extend to about 150 people. Beyond that, it’s difficult to maintain anything but a virtual relationship. And so, by far, most people we see are strangers. As often as not we are their observers. In a closed community, such as a cruise ship, the strangers become familiar but not known. These familiar strangers become predictable; their routines are normalised, and shared circumstance they are attached to backdrop sceneries.

    To the poet: I once tried writing a poem using the advertising text plastered to passing trucks on a highway. What resulted was a random accumulation of words… a traffic jam. As we watch life in passing it has its logical sequence; there is a sense of connection. Place and time give people and events their context. Take away that context and the subject loses its objective frame; might as well write about things.

     

    loosely sketched loosely sketched
  • Day of Rest

    Day of Rest

    I speak to you (who came before us),
    Not by name selective,
    I speak to you (and your same chorus),
    The common man’s collective.
    To those of you who bore a child,
    Gave birth to inspiration,
    Still we have not reconciled,
    The gap in generation.
    To those of you who laboured hard,
    Who life-long sought a quest,
    Still we treat with disregard,
    Your well-earned day of rest.
    . Still it is our destiny, so to be ignored,
    . Later rediscovered, then to be restored.

    © Tim Grace, 8 February 2011

    To the reader: The wisdom of past customs is lost over time. As relics they become quaintly revered. So the day of rest. Past generations recall Sundays spent in contemplation ‘of God’s good work’. All semblance of labour’s toil replaced by a more sombre duty; heaven’s dedication. Not such a bad idea, the notion of dropping tools and turning our attention to the more spiritual side of existence. Come a day, someone will resurrect the day of rest; rest assured.

    To the poet: The speech, in this case a contemplative monologue, needs particular thought given to phrasing. It’s the natural respiration of familiar tones that resonate with the listener’s ears. Give thought to lilt, the rise and fall of intonation. Take care not to force the natural gate into a contrived trot. The neat structure of a sonnet delivers a compact form well suited to delivery. A spoken delivery requires practice; first readings are rarely the best.

     

    day of rest day of rest

     

  • Through Gilded Gums

    Through Gilded Gums

    Here she comes, a silhouette,
    She’ll dance ’til dusk is done,
    Through gilded gums, freshly wet,
    She’ll absorb the sinking sun.
    What nature here creates,
    She’ll draw upon that source,
    In looping figure-eights,
    She’ll trace the ribbon’s course.
    With feather-like finesse,
    She’ll ride the evening breeze,
    Light-footed as a princess,
    She’ll adorn this glade of trees.
    . Born to dance, she’s her mother’s child,
    . So it’s not by chance, she’s like-wise styled.

    © Tim Grace, 28 January 2011

    To the reader: Summer evenings. Warm shower wets the gums. Sun sets. Leaves turn to gold. Band plays an encore. Last note bids farewell. The day is done. The dance is done; for all but one. Free of business, a child calls her grandmother to skip. They do the last dance; as if it was their first. Two ribbons … one path home.

    To the poet: On the edge of sentimental; a soft fall from grace. There are some scenes that need a delicate treatment, they are of themselves romantic, and touched with love. What rescues the sentimental poet is technique. Not so besotted that all sense has been lost. Not so overwhelmed that control has been forsaken. I quite like the discipline of every second line beginning with ‘She’ll’ followed be a verb: dance, absorb, draw, trace, ride and adorn.

     

    through gilded gums through gilded gums