One More Sonnet

Tag: sonnets

  • 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
  • Victory Entombed

    Victory Entombed

    Once again, death rejoices a new grave,
    a soiled-over body, a buried soul;
    welcomes The Dead (Le Mort) to Hades’ cave;
    adds a fresh bag of bones to its countless toll.
    The spoils of victory entombed, encased
    in a casket of clay, in wet mud drenched,
    dispirited, disposed of, laid to waste,
    laid to rest in pieces; so long entrenched.
    ‘So Long’ farewelled, given back; dust to dust…
    But listen, through the dirge, the Angels sing.
    ‘Hark’ the Angels sing (as so the Angels must)
    “Where, Oh Death, is your victory, your sting?”
    . Through nothingness Death must surrender all,
    . beyond nothingness – Eternity’s call.

    © Tim Grace, 22 March 2013

    To the reader: He was 94 at death. An Uncle. An only son. An alcoholic… a troubled soul… a widower with children… a mechanic… a reformed alcoholic… a preacher; a man who found redemption. At life’s end, a man who had travelled a long and arduous journey of self-discovery. An adored father… a revered brother… a soul at rest; freed of Death’s sting, for “I am the resurrection and the life. Whoever believes in me, though he die, yet shall he live, and everyone who lives and believes in me shall never die” (John 11: 25-26).

    To the poet: This sonnet is a layered interpretation of one man’s passage through, and beyond, the doors of death towards eternal peace. To begin with, words rattle with visual references, “but listen” (at line 10) calls upon a new register of interpretation: “Hark the Angels sing”. The dismissal of Death as an ending in itself (1 Corinthians 15:55) takes the sting out of life’s terminal destination. At Death we join the countless dead and become at last united with one collective spirit… so the story goes.

    Victory Entombed
    Victory Entombed
    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/EOga0vsuC6Q
  • 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
  • Chambers of Bone

    Chambers of Bone

    The dinosaur. Well and truly buried.
    A sedimentary relic. Petrified.
    Given to the past; a long time slurried,
    muddied-over, laid to rest, fossilised.
    Entombed worrier. Stabilised in stone.
    Imprisoned posture; contorted, compressed,
    a calcified temple, chambers of bone.
    A cathedral where hides the dragon’s nest.
    The lair, from where darkness is cemented
    to shadows; re-dressed in fear and loathing.
    Where naked bones are re-fleshed. Tormented
    skeletons. Cupboards of ghoulish clothing.
    . From the dust of bones the dragons rise,
    . to be the carriers of cruel demise.

    © Tim Grace, 11 March 2013

    To the reader: The dinosaurs’ demise was dramatic but to some extent not as final as their stone graves suggest. In miniature, birds (as feathered remnants) and reptiles (as scaled mimics) echo the intriguing traits of their prehistoric ancestors. And without too much stretch of logic it’s easy to see how with a flight of fantasy we’ve invented the mythical dragon. Skeletons and rattling bones can send a shiver up the spine.

    To the poet: This sonnet begins with short sharp statements of finality: the dinosaur is dead. And being so, the dinosaur has become a larger than life assemblage of intrigue and fascination. From ‘calcified temples and chambers of bone’ the dinosaur has given birth to the dragon; a cantankerous creature renowned for having a quick and revengeful temper. Some things are best left buried.

    Chambers of Bone
    Chambers of Bone
    Pictures Sources:
    1- http://youtu.be/chmDjcxEcAQ
    2- http://youtu.be/wvESMH93PU8
  • Amplified Invasion

    Amplified Invasion

    An amplified invasion so disturbs
    the peace; a cavalcade of decibels
    on drill: marching the streets, pounding the kerbs.
    Exploding sound-grenades and mortar shells.
    A wall of sound, invisible to touch,
    yet so capable of prickling the skin.
    Audible ferocity; far too much
    to absorb – loud and deafening din.
    A relentless, raucous calamity;
    no definition, a cacophony;
    no room for nuance, blunt audacity;
    no conduct befitting a symphony.
    . To turn down the volume is sound advice,
    . Those who cannot hear pay a heavy price.

    © Tim Grace, 4 March 2013

    To the reader: Walked past a bar in Bondi… note to self triggers idea for sonnet: “Loud defines itself as big and bold; amplified beyond a normal range of tolerance. And that’s the point – tolerance. Loudness has a relative setting calibrated to a social context. There is no right or wrong volume but there is an appropriate volume. Big and bold is admirable to a point; beyond that point it becomes demanding and intrusive.

    To the poet: Walked past a bar in Bondi… loud noise obliterated social exchange. There’s a pleasure in writing from experience. The non-contrived foundation establishes a convincing script. Chances are an authentic narrative attached to a real reaction will resonate with others. And so it was, that evening in Bondi, I was ambushed by an amplified invasion of noise; grabbed without consent.

    Amplified Invasion
    Amplified Invasion
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/eXJo83oHs4M
  • Things of Interest

    Things of Interest

    Things, nameless remnants, objects in a drawer;
    trinkets that tumble out of time and place.
    Garage gadgets, artefacts of war;
    unidentified objects, out of space,
    out of reason, out of function and fit:
    oddities, obscurities, curios
    long since departed from inventor’s wit;
    having lost the memory of ‘who knows’.
    Relics in a box, contents in a trunk,
    a job-lot of stuff, a deceased estate
    to be sold-off cheap, to be bought as junk:
    what’s good for nothing makes a paper weight.
    . Nothing more nameless than a nameless thing.
    . All deserve a title – be it subject or king.

    © Tim Grace, 17 February 2013

    To the reader: I discovered an eccentric great uncle: the bird man. He was featured in a national display of urban characters known for having an inventive wit related to ‘things’. Uncle Henry Grace, was a bird-listener. He rode the country-side listening to warbles. Fittingly, he then invented his own form of warble-notation to capture distinctive ‘calls of the bush’. Then, he would create tin-whistles that imitated the various cheeps and chirps. A century later they are ‘things’ of interest; curios.

    To the poet: In its first-draft this sonnet began with: ‘Objectification, the stuff of things’… borrowed (I remember) from the more contentious notion of ‘Subjectification, the sport of kings’. Quite a nice beginning, but the rest of the sonnet was hopelessly lost in trivial detail. And so, the long task of re-writing began. A complete upheaval takes some effort. Holding on to the essence, discarding all else … that’s the thing.

    Things of Interest
    Things of Interest
    Picture Source:
    http://trove.nla.gov.au/work/36318721?q=henry+grace+whistles&l-availability=y&l-australian=y&c=picture&versionId=46737536