One More Sonnet

Tag: sonnet

  • Bank of Clouds

    Bank of Clouds

    Below me, a bank of clouds,
    A deceptively solid mass,
    As with mobs, and moving crowds
    It has no guide or compass.
    As if driven by its changing shape,
    It drifts beyond itself,
    As one amorphous cloudscape,
    on its way to somewhere else.
    With dissolving definition,
    It balloons in to a form,
    With potential recognition,
    As an agitated storm
    . What’s coming? … a dull day … humourless,
    . What’s gathering? … cumulous.

    © Tim Grace, 13 November 2010

    To the reader: As terrestrial beings, humans are not often treated to a topside view of clouds. But the occasional flight provides an elevated view of these gaseous textured masterpieces of shape and form. As a natural consequence of rising damp, clouds are in constant manufacture; evolving, transforming, swelling and collapsing … wisping away to nothing, condensing into something.

    To the poet: The achievement in this sonnet comes from its ‘amorphous’ shape and form. The poem’s ‘text’ure is wordy and a little verbose. References to airborne masses float across the lines. Black and white statements are smudged forming grey illusions that drift into one and other with uncertain consequence; if not a clash then to juxtapose.

     

    bank of clouds bank of clouds

     

  • Not Incredible

    Not Incredible

    Don’t make of me a case in point
    Or define me as a jewel,
    I’m not a thing you need anoint
    As an exception to the rule.
    I’m not a one-off centre piece,
    Or a brightly shining star,
    Compare me not to say Matisse
    Or call me objet d’art
    Give me not your accolades,
    I need them not to shine,
    Send me not on escapades
    That to a hero you’d assign.
    .    I’m a pillar not a pedestal,
    .    I’m good but not incredible.

    © Tim Grace, 26 November 2010

     

    To the reader: The burden of expectation is a heavy weight. The mild-mannered super hero is a case in point. Encumbered with a sense of conviction, the archetypal hero bares the load of over-whelming duty. When released of expectation the hero, as centre-piece, is freed of others’ expectations. It’s the pillar not the pedestal that bares weight and distributes the load.

    To the poet: Pulling apart a poem reveals a poet’s word play. Throughout this poem, rhythm falls heavily on the word ‘not’; as repeated in alternating lines. The opening word is ‘don’t’ and from this point on the emphasis is clear: ‘I’m good but not incredible’. The words might say ‘don’t’ but they are expressed with determination and conviction; heroic traits indeed.

     

    not incredible
    not incredible
  • Faithful Reality

    Faithful Reality

    The reconstruction of reality,
    As captured in good prose,
    Is penned with credibility;
    So easily it flows.
    Natural to its bent,
    Truthful but not chained,
    Busy ‘yes’, but far from spent;
    Unstressed, and not constrained.
    With gently scripted phrases,
    That carve a natural course
    It’s generous with praises;
    And faithful to its source.
    .   Do what it takes, to make the words assemble,
    .   But if it shakes, let it shake … not tremble.

    © Tim Grace, 19 November 2010

    To the reader: A believable recollection if not fully true should at least be credible in its fabrication. The unpolished retell needs grit; not too processed, not too artificial. Reality needs to be plausible so that actions can be resolved through a logical sequence of reactions; consequential responses befitting a tale.

    To the poet: The fear of every poet should be false contrivance. Poems need to be designed and constructed. They need foundations and building blocks. They need to be braced and supported. What they don’t need is fabrication. They don’t need false imagery. They don’t need contrived comparison. They should need no force of will.

     

     

    faithful reality faithful reality

     

  • No Certain Gift

    No Certain Gift

    From high anticipation
    Swells a reservoir of need,
    In relentless expectation
    Dwells avarice and greed.
    With accumulated envy
    In sediments of must,
    There’s fear of what might empty
    And desiccate to dust,
    The certainty of emphasis
    Undelivered cuts a rift,
    And from this pool of promises
    There is no certain gift.
    . The hope of all wishes, is a dream come true.
    . Real or capricious, you can not make it due.

    © Tim Grace, 7 November 2010

    To the reader: Hope is not built upon a promise. That which springs eternal carries no guarantee of service or delivery. When ladened with expectation hope is prone to sour and curdle into a frustrated yearn; a nagging desire. Expectation stretches forward and as with rope can not be pushed.

    To the poet: Sometimes confidence overrides technical issues. The sheer force of short rhythmical phrases ignores a dubious rhyme; and to some extent, makes it all the more interesting. Each pair of lines, within the quatrains, works as one structure of meaning. And then, the meaningful pairs are tied together with conjunctives to form a single, and united, sonnet. A single piece of rope.

     

    no certain gift no certain gift

     

  • Statues

    Statues

    Two trees, two statues, and me,
    For a moment we shared the same space,
    Each of us, in a garden gallery,
    Poised, for art sake, in the same place.
    I entered this garden with a foreigner’s eye,
    I was in this garden, but not part of it,
    I took to this garden a sense of I
    And with this eye, I’d never see the heart of it.
    I turned to leave, but as I did,
    As a statue does, I froze,
    It was then that I became the garden, so amid,
    And among, at once… I saw what was.
    .   A sculptured garden submits to control
    .   Yet, a sculpture garden has heart and soul.

    © Tim Grace, 3 November 2010

    To the reader: An outdoor art space – a garden gallery. A recent creation without the presence of rustic age. Bronze statues are anchored to the lawn, too carefully placed in position; posed not poised. The landscaping is suburban, the lawns manicured and the shrubs neatly trimmed. Without context the statues, like me, are foreigners to this garden. We search for meaning and find it in our common sense of separation. We too are one.

    To the poet: In this sonnet there’s a growing sense of self in place, and a conscious positioning of ‘I’ as myself. The poem begins with a lock-step description of separate entities; emphasising awkward placement. The middle segment identifies myself as a poignant feature of the gallery. With static placement, I become another statue, and from that vantage point can bring heart and soul to its overall composition.

     

    statues
    statues

     

  • Chocolate Swirl

    Chocolate Swirl

    A chocolate swirl melts into self,
    Folds into resolution.
    Self-absorbed, it finds relief,
    And holds its constitution.
    Fluid, liquid, but hardly wet,
    With creamy distribution,
    Its cast is not yet set…
    No final execution.
    There’s a shimmer to its surface,
    A sugar sweet solution,
    A chocolate heart, a chocolate kiss,
    A lover’s institution.
    . A soft-centred lover, indulgent to the core,
    . A chocolate coated message, too delicious to ignore.

    © Tim Grace, 3 November 2010

    To the reader: The taste and texture of chocolate is its combined attraction. It’s a substance that is responsive to environment – hard and cold can’t resist a soft and warm touch. At that melting moment sensations collide; there’s a clash of riches: smooth dark and sweet. Chocolate is a substance with substance; a substantial treat, and a lover’s gift.

    To the poet: The ‘self’ absorbed nature of chocolate suggests gentle animation; viscous definition. The melting moment is enhanced by rounded sounds that fold together without the disruption of angular or edgy observation. The linking of love and chocolate is left to late in the sonnet … there’s a shimmer to its surface.

     

     

    chocolate swirl chocolate swirl