One More Sonnet

Tag: psychology

  • Social Offence

    Social Offence

    Never under-estimate self-interest:
    a motivating drive that self-rewards.
    Take note, observe the well-feathered nest,
    lined full of comforts; as pleasure affords.
    Don’t take for granted self-interest’s desire;
    don’t be gullible or slow to your feet;
    don’t be surprised by what Self will acquire;
    don’t be the lender who has no receipt.
    Take heed, be ready, keep track of the score.
    Self seeks advantage, full measures the gain.
    Take nothing for granted, rest not assure,
    Self seeks indulgence; treats else with disdain.
    . Indulgence of self at others’ expense.
    . A cruel investment … a social offence.

    © Tim Grace, 4 May 2013

    To the reader: Possession brings them pleasure and reassurance. Put crudely, their conniving motivation is greed. They are the players who want more than is their fare share; cunning manipulators that contrive a self-serving solution. The psychology of greed would find its origins in an unresolved, deep-seated, sense of lacking… ‘poor me’ seeking restitution; ‘poor me’ retrieving what I’m owed.

    To the poet: In the writing of a poem like this there has to be some emotional investment in its authorship. In its composition, it has to express annoyance and disappointment; some skin in the game. As I put pen to paper, I draw upon genuine feelings of frustration to validate my argument, to test its impact and authenticity. In its reading, I need to recognise those same unclaimed investments… the emotion must be raw and real.

    Social Offence
    Social Offence
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/RZwmPBP2JHI
  • Unravelling Dimensions

    Unravelling Dimensions

    Sadly, the remains are but frailties:
    crumbling pillars and collapsing pylons;
    fragile columns; diminished faculties;
    cancerous concrete; corroded irons;
    frayed exposure; unravelling dimensions
    stripped of the scaffold that prevents collapse.
    Footings, as anchored to loose connections,
    probabilities reduced to perhaps.
    Platforms of understanding turned on edge:
    uncertainty – an awkward intrusion;
    short-term remedy – with no long-term pledge;
    a mortarless mix – dust and dillusion.
    . Crumbling columns collapse; ruins remain.
    . No rhyming couplet can loosen the strain.

    © Tim Grace, 26 April 2013

    To the reader: Dementia is a cruel affliction. The brain retires its function and loses its grip on day-to-day realities. Learnt routines are no longer spontaneous, simple sequences are interrupted and confusion increasingly describes the state of mind. As problems compound there’s a step-down effect; delusion and dismantling go hand-in-hand; finally, connections become tenuous and recognition becomes featureless.

    To the poet: My father is suffering the slow decline of dementia. In the beginning stages he would read my sonnets with editorial license, holding on to rules but glossing over nuance that could no longer catch his attention. Years on, the crafted string of words are meaningless. His highly analytical brain has lost its refined capacity to decode and decipher. And so, I write about him; the subject of my thoughts.

    Unravelling Dimensions
    Unravelling Dimensions
  • Open Book

    Open Book

    It’s clear to you, I am an open book;
    an easy read with all my plot laid bear.
    All of me is gesture, betrayed by look:
    a tilt of head, a glance of eye, and there
    am I revealed… all parts of me are script.
    In truth, then, I am nothing more than stage;
    all of me is theatre, so well equipped
    to assume a role, animate a page
    with action, to be read by likes of thee.
    So well trained in delivery of lines
    I believe myself impromptu; falsely,
    to be playwright of my own designs.
    . Every thought is preceded by an act.
    . It’s from gesture that meaning we extract.

    © Tim Grace, 23 March 2013

    To the reader: At the sub-conscious level, we have social receptors that monitor the quality of our relationships. Our senses collect an array of information; this quantum undergoes neural processing before translation into an appropriate response. Our brains filter out what’s unnecessary and appropriate what remains as useful to the circumstance. That filtering process isn’t invisible. There are many cues that provide evidence of subtle subterfuge… to the astute, we are an open book.

    To the poet: The success of this sonnet relies on how well it portrays an impromptu script. The poem’s plot sits (more rightly flits) between two layers of consciousness. The reader (you) is encouraged to scrutinise the writer (me) for signs of ingenuous intention. I am betrayed by give-away gestures that make me nothing more than a scripted actor; a fake, from an open-book masquerade.

    Open Book Open Book
  • 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
  • Animosity

    Animosity

    No curse more worse than animosity.
    Hateful envy, a pox of bilious bile,
    jealous anger, savage ferocity,
    pity gone putrid, ugly and vile.
    Desires become cravings; converted
    wants become needs; crudely, love becomes lust;
    good things strangled, hopelessly perverted…
    so steel turns to rust, and diamonds to dust.
    Animosity will foul its own nest:
    over-paint a masterpiece, self-corrupt
    the elegance of beauty crudely dressed.
    The curse of animosity – one-upped!
    . The success of others (not yours to own)
    . If not resolved, will turn a heart to stone.

    © Tim Grace, 22 December 2012

    To the reader: Animosity is a stifling energy. Characteristically, it’s an emotional state that directs spiteful anger at a rival who has gained a perceived ‘unfair advantage’ in the relationship. From small issues problems fester and spiral out of all proportion. Resolution is unlikely to occur without some helpful intervention that manages to recalibrate the tension. Animosity is more often quelled than it is quashed.

    To the poet: A sonnet that taps into raw-emotion needs to anchor its rancour hard and fast. There’s little room to escalate slowly. The first line: “no curse more worse than animosity” unravels the expose; and the avalanche torrents forth. In a poem like this, the rush of verbiage is propelled on the back of poetic ploys that are easily translated into expected rhythms and solid rhymes; given a liberal dose of assonance, consonance and alliteration.

    Animosity
    Animosity
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/sTxBOzjxDn4
  • Shine

    Shine

    Shine through the darkness, penetrate the night.
    Dawn beneath the shadows that overcast
    those slumbering diamonds desperate for light;
    uncovered memories, bejewelled to last.
    Shine between the cracks of that shattered dream.
    Gloss over edges that diminish hope,
    polish up the threads of a golden seam;
    discovered passions, rekindled to cope.
    Shine upon a steel breeze, amend its mood.
    Take the black dog and heat its cold intent
    with warmth; the antidote is attitude;
    recovered talents, refashioned to vent.
    . Depression’s remedy is a light touch,
    . a glimmer of hope, that will shine as such.

    © Tim Grace, 2 December 2012

    To the reader: For the discerning adolescent ear, Pink Floyd filled a ‘head space’ that responded to the musical dynamics of depth and complexity. The sound of other bands, including the Beatles, could tolerate the phonic limitations of an old record player. But, to best appreciate a Pink Floyd album it had to be dust-free and scratch-less. With the right hi-fi system, Pink Floyd could transform a bedroom into a theatre of ethereal sound.

    To the poet: Pink Floyd’s first album ‘The Piper at the Gates of Dawn’ (1967) contains eight lyrics penned by Syd Barrett. Read as poetry, it’s clear Syd knew how to craft a song; he knew the rules, and had a versatile bank of ‘tips and tricks’ in his wordsmith quiver. As an exercise, I wrote this sonnet as a sampler; at the same time acknowledging the traumatic demise of a shining star … condensed to a ‘crazy diamond’.

    Shine Shine
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/qGd1eiLKY_8