One More Sonnet

Tag: sonnet

  • Tangled Remnants

    Tangled Remnants

    Where once a solid form existed,
    There’s nothing left but shard,
    Tangled remnants, split and twisted,
    Tossed without regard.
    Earth ripped and roughly gashed,
    Features stripped and shattered,
    Levees broken, structures smashed,
    Strewn about and scattered,
    And in amongst this mangled mess,
    There stands a man forlorn,
    Too numb to feel distress,
    Too tired to weep or mourn,
    . At crisis points, when faith is shaken,
    . It’s then, when man feels most forsaken

    © Tim Grace, 18 March 2011

    To the reader: Natural disasters tally-up a cruel toll. Impacts are deep and far-reaching. Headlines describe upheaval, deluge and inundation. Apart from individual trauma, social rupture compounds the devastation into widespread despondency. Forlorn despair grips tight; testing humanity’s collective will and resilience. Fortitude offers repair… but that takes time to accept; first comes loss and grief.

    To the poet: Piecing together a poem from fractured snippets of human misery is a delicate process. The depth of emotional content delivers a glossary of hackneyed headlines. As poet, with vicarious voice, one can reference common parlance and translate trite commentary but not without the risk of superficial opportunism. Take care, disaster awaits the thoughtless.

     

    tangled remnants tangled remnants

     

  • Elevated Poise

    Elevated Poise

    Unlike the rusting artifact,
    Returning unto earth,
    The golden bust will long attract,
    An interest in its worth.
    With the likeness of divinity,
    We revere its golden crust,
    In museums of antiquity,
    It shall not gather dust.
    With its luminated lustre,
    And its elevated poise,
    It has the strength to master,
    What atrophy destroys.
    . The light is cast with a golden ray,
    . It shines in those who seek the way.

    © Tim Grace, 26 February 2011

    To the reader: I am the light, I am the way… with enlightenment comes direction. And so radiates the golden frame with truth in abundance; postured to inspire. Awe-struck, we the lesser mortals pause to absorb the significance of a moment in the presence of a golden sage. I am the way… and the lost become found; I am the light … and blind shall see.

    To the poet: Continuity of speech, a natural flow of ordered thought, and a lucid end; these are hallmarks of a well-rounded poem. A poem that narrates an awe-struck moment needs to have its own glint of wisdom and truth. Having been informed by revelation the poem needs bigness befitting to its source. The outward glow of insight.

     

    elevated poise elevated poise

     

  • One Truth Remains

    One Truth Remains

    What we know can be deceptive,
    Exact, but not complete.
    It’s the fool who is receptive,
    To the charlatan and cheat.
    The truth is far more subtle,
    And difficult to grasp.
    It’s open to rebuttal,
    It’s the bastard of a rasp.
    What’s real through comprehension,
    (as absurd or somewhat strange)
    Is worthy of a mention…
    But sensitive to change.
    . Throughout our lives one truth remains,
    . Wisdom thrives where confusion reigns.

    © Tim Grace, 23 February 2011

    To the reader: Lack of knowledge begets assumption. Doubt accommodates the leap of faith, the jumping to conclusion; the guess. It also makes room for curiosity and wonder. For better or worse doubt provides a vacant opportunity. The cheat makes good use of doubt by cleverly distorting what seems to be a plausible reality. The charlatan, a cheat on steroids, makes vacancy a marketplace for the gullible; more fool us.

    To the poet: Although written in three quatrains, this sonnet for the most part reads well in double-lined sentences. The even lines tend to echo the sentiment of the preceding odd-line. With this odd/even progression the poem builds its logical form and structure. Treating the two lines as a single sentence reduces the number of free standing elements and tightens the message; through fewer inserted thoughts.

     

    one truth remains one truth remains

     

  • Be … His…

    Be … His…

    Be soothed, mellow is his voice,
    Take comfort, pleasant is his tone,
    Be secured, anchored to his choice,
    Take steps towards his zone,
    Be open to suggestions,
    Give permission to his means,
    Be prone to his impressions,
    Give way to setting scenes,
    Be willing, under his cajole,
    Rest aside reason and debate,
    Be content, consent to his control,
    Rest easy, in this deeply altered state.
    . He has you in a sleep-filled trance,
    . Exposed … to his control of circumstance.

    © Tim Grace, 21 February 2011

    To the reader: Being a hypnotist’s dummy, I imagine, requires nerve. The value of surrender, I suspect, warrants the investment. Being susceptible to another’s authority has me fearful of exposure and embarrassment. As an onlooker, I enjoy the theatre of comic hypnotism. The dramatic elements of powerless submission are bewildering; and often amusing. There seems to be no battle, resistance is futile; but only for those who choose it so… quite strange!

    To the poet: Wooden boxes can be made using all manner of decorative joints. Function is a necessary factor, but aesthetics delivers the essential ornamental purpose. The same is so for this poem which in a functional sense communicates an idea; nothing too important. Over function, of more interest is its shape and pattern. The pairing of lines is emphasised at front and end, the quatrains are internally repetitive and the rhyming is simple; all to good effect.

     

    Be ... His ... Be … His …

     

  • Four Strings

    Four Strings

    To the strains of a string quartet,
    The classics claim the night,
    With four strings and not one fret,
    The chords are sheer delight.
    Feel the warmth of Vivaldi’s Spring,
    The late harvest, reaping scores,
    The crescendo, hanging on a string,
    The fertile note, the pregnant pause,
    Brahm’s in accompaniment, mellow,
    As the sound of water over stones,
    To finish (with yiddish temperament) the cello,
    Draws a long bow; in sombre tones.
    . The living sounds are beautifully matched,
    . They often come with strings attached.

    © Tim Grace, 18 February 2011

    To the reader: The soft sounds of a string quartet float with reassurance; buoyant. The four piece band with full emphasis on melodic harmonies; tuneful. The result, a beautifully balanced accompaniment to a night on the rolling waves; far from all at sea. Nervous introductions, delivered in broken English, were translated into masterful renditions of music’s classical best.

    To the poet: Nothing like being there. Nonetheless, a good poem extends the moment; outlasts the experience and aids retrieval. Ditties, like snapshots or snippets, are framed with little purpose beyond a statement of ‘I was here…”. Through deeper recollection, the experience can’t be surpassed, magnified or replicated; it can be synthesised. The poem, for just a moment, can make sense of all things at once.

     

    four strings four strings

     

  • 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