One More Sonnet

Tag: sonnets

  • Just a poet

    Just a poet

    Do not give that poet licence to print.
    Trust him with nothing more than a bent quill.
    Give him no room to manoeuvre, no hint
    of suggestion; no modicum of thrill;
    nothing to spill upon a naked page.
    Just for his own amusement, he’ll distort
    an innocent phrase; blatantly upstage
    the messenger with elevated haught.
    He’ll brazenly award himself credit
    beyond his due; without hesitation,
    he’ll tag himself as first to have said it…
    Man of Words … with big imagination.
    . This ‘Man of Words’ is just a dictionary,
    . just a parrot, well-skilled at mimicry.

    © Tim Grace, 23 November 2014

    To the reader: It’s not words that commit the crime; it’s the choice of those words in combination with intent to harm or damage reputation. And so, the shady area of exploitation is encircled by interpretation. The cunning ‘poet’ will cleverly disguise his ambiguous message with layers of obfuscated connotation. Using every trick in the book, he’ll burden the reader with responsibility for word association.

    To the poet: The parrot might be able to argue his words should not be taken literally. But, as a poet, you do have to take responsibility for the syntax and semantics of your artistic expression. Your deliberate acts of subtle word-play can cause a mischief that requires remediation; or at least, explanation. Blaming the reader for his/her sensitive interpretation is hardly the act of a chivalrous sonneteer.

    Just a Poet Just a Poet
    Picture Source:
    (http://youtu.be/IqRrvdJMvlk)
  • In His Likeness

    In His Likeness

    Made in his likeness. More true than correct.
    A permanent resemblance, confirming
    his rigidity. In every respect
    a replica; and in that sense, a thing
    to be admired. As would justify
    impressive compliment: so highly classed,
    so desirable to this maiden’s eye.
    Thus, besotted by his enduring cast,
    she would praise upon him commendation.
    Wonder at the depth of his conviction.
    Absorb his strength, ride his motivation;
    ’til resolved of Cupid’s contradiction.
    . Conviction is not a measure of length,
    . without substance we have no strength.

    © Tim Grace, 19 October 2014

    To the reader: Stature has less to do with shape and form; more to do with conviction and substance. While the proportion of a figure provides insight into its mechanical advantages, the nature of its pose and posture suggest its depth of character. Poise and style are features of an impressive presence; something to be admired.

    To the poet: Shakespeare enjoyed a little naughtiness. Sprinkled throughout his sonnets are references to all manner of subtle titillations. His last two sonnets (153 and 154) provide the most obvious examples of his brand of bawdiness. Never salacious or explicit just suggestive of something a little spicy. Could that be … surely not?

    In His Likeness In His Likeness
    Picture Source:
    (http://youtu.be/OOO1mffekkw)
  • Life’s Narrative

    Life’s Narrative

    Do we discover purpose, or is that
    a given; that through life, we must fulfil?
    To what extent are we determined, at
    what point do we grip that moment still?
    Is life just another conversation,
    a string of thoughts? Ruminated verbiage
    that connects two points upon occasion.
    A life-span, that builds a virtual bridge
    from here to eternity; quite a stretch.
    A void, can’t be leapt in a single bound;
    can’t be fathomed; a forward passing fetch,
    caught on the fly – wrestled and brought to ground.
    . Life’s narrative is given spin and span,
    . just enough to scuttle the ‘best of’ plan.

    © Tim Grace, 29 September 2014

    To the reader: The ‘universal givens’ are built into the fabric of our design. Therefore, our solutions to some extent conform to a pre-determined brief. Within bounds there’s plenty of room to be creative but as nature so regularly displays, there are some basic patterns that warrant repeat: the beautiful helix, the golden ratio and fibonacci’s spiral; to name a few.

    To the poet: Our purpose; a universal mystery, that asks: “Why are we here?”. Without certainty of purpose we have no option but to explore the potential of an uncertain existence. To chronicle that collective journey, the Arts provide an open ended narrative. Without apology, the Arts interpret uncertainty using imagination as its tool of choice. To search is our purpose… the mission is unclear.

    Life's Narrative
    Life’s Narrative
    Picture Source:
    (http://youtu.be/nI8A61uqybw)
  • Forensic Crop

    Forensic Crop

    There’s a field of sunflowers, fertilised
    with blood and bone that’s fallen from the sky.
    A forensic crop, to be scrutinised
    for every seed of truth; felled from on high.
    There’ll be a harvest of human debris,
    a reassembling of the scatterings.
    There’ll be an inquest into tragedy
    with assessment of its smatterings.
    And all of this… and all of this for what?
    A crime scene, rich with humanity’s loss.
    A battle field, a war zone; someone’s plot
    eternal, and ‘they’ couldn’t give a toss.
    . Scatterings – the source of recovery.
    . Smatterings – the course of discovery.

    © Tim Grace, 13 September 2014

    To the reader: Civilian passengers and crew, on MH17, were victims of a missile attack. Aircraft and human debris landed in a field of sunflowers in Ukrane’s disputed territory. Embattled circumstances surrounding the crime scene created a forensic nightmare. The inexplicable nature of the horrific attack was worsened by a lack of responsibility or remorse shown by those who perpetrated the crime.

    To the poet: Looking back on my draft, this sonnet was written in one session without much editing required. At the time of writing, there was a pervasive sense of frustration being expressed by nations seeking compassionate resolution. Without reserve, the sonnet depicts a wantonly wasteful tragedy… highlights the futility of war.

    Forensic Crop Forensic Crop
    Picture Source:
    (http://youtu.be/dYfGcnTtQbE)
  • Without You

    Without You

    I am nothing but myself without you.
    You are the key to every lock I own.
    To say you are my everything is true.
    Without you I am never more alone.
    You are my Spring, you are my Autumn-flush.
    Without you I’m a Winter-plot unkempt.
    You are my Summer – every flower’s blush.
    Without you I’m a year that wasn’t dreamt.
    You are my awakening; my morning would
    be nothing but the softest dew at dawn.
    You are my sketch, that pictures me as good.
    Without you I’m an image never drawn.
    . You are the life in every day I live
    . You are the gift in every thing I give.

    © Tim Grace, 31 August 2014

    To the reader: Love is an ingredient that confirms completeness, enriches purpose and satisfies our intimate desires. We nurture partnerships through love’s tenderness; it’s love that cares about a broken heart, it’s love that freshens an exhausted soul, it’s love that brings joy to adult affairs. Love’s generous abundance is in endless reserve; love replenishes love; love’s gift is love.

    To the poet: The first quatrain is tentative, the second a bit soppy; and the third, hopeful of a climax. The final couplet provides the post-literal summary. When ‘love’ becomes an object of attention it resists exposure; love is shy and reserved in nature. Love is rarely captured without damage. Like a butterfly… most beautiful in flight.

    Without You Without You
    Picture Source:
    (http://youtu.be/06n402OTsKg)
  • Vagrant Wordsmith

    Vagrant Wordsmith

    A dispossessed poet has no address.
    Vagrant wordsmith finds himself lost for words.
    Sunday morning solitude. More or less
    a Waste Land. Quarters apportioned in thirds;
    fractional allotments… absurdities.
    Occupied tables, multiples of six,
    or four, or two. Disputed territories.
    Unilateral remedies, far from fix
    an awkward treaty. Spaces between lines
    become expansive; attract attention.
    Diplomatic remedy realigns
    position; puts possessed in contention.
    . A poet in the margins, far from lost,
    . far from desolate; has his words embossed.

    © Tim Grace, 24 August 2014

    To the reader: Rhyme-inducing comfort zones are hard to find, and even harder to keep; context is everything. For years, I’ve sampled cafe cuisines in pursuit of an ideal writing ambiance. For the most part, a hotel’s ‘breakfast room’ seems optimal. As a large enterprise, hotels usually offer an affordable option of ‘tea and toast’. With passing trade, the regular change of clientele constructs an interesting sense of community; notable but not obvious.

    To the poet: If you’re outwardly observant and inwardly conscious the creative mind looks after the assembly of a poem. Once the mind is located and in-flow with the general gist of a theme it will mix and match its contribution of frames and reference points. That’s all very well, and easier said than done; practice and discipline are critical components of the process – and that presumes a conducive space to write. Conducive means interesting but non-distractive.

    Vagrant Poet
    Vagrant Poet