One More Sonnet

Tag: reading

  • Dog House

    Dog House

    Where live those demons, where do they reside?
    Long-stay lodgers, cluttering cavities,
    residential tenants, hard to abide,
    hard to accommodate … depravities.
    Where live those phobias that tease and taunt?
    Reckless wranglers, robbers of niche and nest.
    Thieves, gypsies and thieves, that endlessly haunt
    contentment; pull upon the softest leash.
    Where live those mongrels, that doggedly drain
    all sense from sensibility, larking
    larrikins, bedroom bandits, once again
    prove themselves mad, yes… barking!
    . Where lives lunacy, where does it locate?
    . It lives in a kennel, barks at the gate.

    © Tim Grace, 15 September 2012

    To the reader: I think dog-ness needs to be recognised as a disability. My canine residents are daily afflicted by a host of phobias; translated into all manner of quirky behaviours. Between stimulus and response their processing is spontaneous and erratic; predictably, the product is most often a “dog’s breakfast”. As chaos calms, there’s a small sense of reflection but never enough to suggest that sanity will ever prevail.

    To the poet: As a descriptive piece, this poem delivers a litany of pet perturbances. I love my dogs but they do have some very annoying habits that warrant occasional relegation to the metaphorical dog-house. Obviously, it was important to workshop the sonnet. I’m happy to report that both dogs agreed it was a perfect likeness of the other.

     

    Dog House Dog House

     

  • Sameness Overcome

    Sameness Overcome

    All days the same, patterned on each other;
    templates, just repeated in shape and size.
    How to make a difference; one from t’other?
    Make love to the morning, feel her surprise.
    Love’s rhythm is what sets two days apart.
    Begins the flow of motion that prepares
    your mind for nuance; gives the day fresh start.
    When borne of love, no other compares…
    for sameness is overcome. With love’s touch
    the subtlety of difference is revealed,
    feelings are massaged, caressed, and as such
    become a new day; fresh as a green field.
    . No two kisses need ever be the same,
    . with love’s rebirth, each day takes a new frame.

    © Tim Grace, 8 September 2012

    To the reader: Love is a refreshing agent. Its confirmation reassures and resets relationships. The natural flow of day and night cycles through the rhythm of life and love responds in kind. We are bound to love’s attraction; drawn to its affection; captured by its charm; and seduced by its sensitivity. Those delicious endorphins have us craving a new day’s kiss.

    To the poet: A poem about sex doesn’t need to be lewd, crude or rude. The power of suggestion is all that’s required. As with all good art, a good poem needs to leave room for interpretation. To leave no room for suggestive imagination would mark the erotic intent as nothing more than pornographic titillation. By the splendours of a new day sameness is overcome.

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  • Three Complications

    Three Complications

    The cave, the campfire, and the carnival.
    Three complications, mine to be resolved.
    In one, the cave, I am most comfortable.
    Most myself, most at home, most involved.
    Drag me from my cave, my favoured dwelling,
    wrench me out of this reclusive hollow;
    pull me screaming and ignore my yelling;
    tow me to the campfire, make me follow;
    wright me in the carnival’s raucous script;
    place me with a crowd, put me on parade;
    chain me to the mob – least of all equipped
    to cope with this, and most of all afraid.
    . I’m a caveman, that’s my disposition.
    . Elsewhere, I’m awkward in rendition.

    © Tim Grace, 26 August 2012

    To the reader: In a social sense we all have a comfort zone; an interactive range of capability. In the cave dwells the ‘home alone’ introvert. Oblivious to external distractions, he happily crafts an inward-facing palace of private pleasures. His windows on the world are guarded lookouts; portals that provide protection as much as they do vistas over new horizons. His home is an introspective exhibition of self-sufficiency… he looks forward to your company, but rarely seeks it.

    To the poet: I write from the vantage point of a cave. A metaphorical-mobile-cave that has no fixed address. The metaphorical-mobile-cave is appointed with modern amenities and adapts well to its surrounding conditions. In this sense, it’s a versatile-metaphorical-mobile-cave with its own sense of respectful hospitality. The cafe is my cave… a poet’s paradise.

     

    Three Complications
    Three Complications

     

  • 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

     

  • Bedlam’s Gift

    Bedlam’s Gift

    Do you remember the playground, that place
    of inherited rules, rough and tumbled
    into kingdoms with short reign: King, Ace;
    no certainty of claim – empires crumbled?
    Humbled victors became losers. The once
    proud owner of a patch relegated;
    made to start again. A bottom-up dunce
    stripped of position, mocked and berated;
    slated; given no slack; given what comes;
    given the licence to begin again;
    to re-climb; to reclaim status. That’s bedlam’s
    gift, that’s the playground I remember then…
    . No need to keep the playground free of dust.
    . The prissy playground is a breach of trust.

    © Tim Grace, 18 August 2012

    To the reader: The school yard is a swirling patchwork of colours and shapes. The blacktop accommodates the hoops and high bouncing balls; white slashes of squared concrete cater to the criss-cross of tennis balls; and the green-grassed fields squarely frame the arc of foot propelled projectiles. All of this in the context of highly competitive play; skin in the game delivers respect and reputation. In my memory, it was sometimes fun, sometimes fair… very rarely perfect.

    To the poet: A jumble of words. A connected tangle of playful poetics. This sonnet works in three fields that overplay the shape of simple four-line stanzas. Each stanza ends with a rhyme that begins the next; text creating an extra ripple of repetition. Then there’s the enjambement that carelessly bounces over boundaries; a breach of rules; edgy, annoying but fair play.

     

    Bedlam's Gift Bedlam’s Gift
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/ul3cmqXz5vU

     

  • 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