One More Sonnet

Tag: sonnets

  • Inspiration 1 – Enthusiasm

    Inspiration 1 – Enthusiasm

    We all seek that spark of inspiration.
    We crave its challenge, relish its rewards,
    welcome its trigger; its motivation;
    its promise of profit … as such affords.
    Inspiration is an essence; of sorts,
    an energy, a fine spirit at best.
    It’s a shapeless elixir that contorts
    the grip of reason with a dose of zest.
    It’s the will of conviction with fresh claim
    to a stale idea, it’s the modern twist,
    the contemporary spin; it’s the vim, the flame
    that fires-up passion … it’s stamina’s grist.
    . Inspiration is that breath of fresh air
    . that fuels a flicker to generate flare.

    © Tim Grace, 20 January 2012

    To the reader: Inspiration is something more than motivation. Both nouns describe an action. We can be motivated to do all manner of tasks that are hardly inspiring; the reverse is harder to imagine. Unlike motivation, inspiration finds its source beyond basic needs; and further more, is not dependent upon base rewards to maintain an interest. The mark of genuine inspiration is enthusiasm.

    To the poet: Another sonnet that took some stubborn shaping; thought pieces are like that. The poem’s theme is inspiration and should have been delivered through the guise of enthusiasm; instead, it reads like a cerebral exercise. The final couplet once read: “Welcome inspiration with open arms… it’s the antidote to worrisome qualms”. A nice couplet, but the sonnet wasn’t about worry’s antidote; it was about the spirit of inspiration.

     

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  • The Watched

    The Watched

    If you watch with care there are things to note.
    Things aren’t necessarily the way they seem.
    Within plays there are plays that make remote
    our awareness of hidden plot and theme.
    The secret subtleties of which I speak
    are hard to notice in a moment’s glance;
    they do their utmost not to be unique;
    everything they can to minimise chance
    of being noticed or of standing proud.
    In their script there is no stage nor curtain;
    no theatre, no audience, just a crowd
    made blind to the subtleties of certain.
    . Motion provides a stable place to hide;
    . a refuge for those with disguise applied.

    © Tim Grace, 12 January 2012

    To the reader: In this period of writing, with resident status, I anonymously sat at the same table in a busy inner-city cafe. Daily, I had a vantage point that was unusual for its routine. And so, I began to notice patterns of behaviour that repeated themselves; in particular that of a plain-clothed policeman. His under-cover status relied on a steady flow of unobservant patrons buying “coffee-to-go”. My stability was his exposure… he became visible; he became the watched.

    To the poet: Some poems are stubborn; this is one of them. It’s been over-worked – laboured. As with a drawing that’s been repeatedly repaired, its problems are made all the more obvious. The idea was to locate the object (an under-cover policemen) in a fast flowing stream of subjects (cafe patrons). This stream became an indistinguishable rush of them and they and their; added to by a liberal dose of that.

     

    the watched the watched

     

     

     

  • Summer Storm

    Summer Storm

    Inner city vagrant, he’s in a mood;
    he’s off his head on speed, and paranoid;
    he’s cranky-cross and pumped with attitude;
    all common courtesies are null and void.
    He’s seething with anger, hate and contempt;
    his agitated eyes cast a wide net;
    they pierce deeply and leave no-one exempt;
    all must bare the weight of his drug-fuelled threat:
    “What’s your problem, you faggot, I’ll kill you!
    You want to try me, and see if I won’t?”
    Ignoring him makes it worse, makes him brew;
    he baits your reaction, bites if you don’t.
    . Nothing calms the storm of a derelict mind,
    . puts the rest of us in an awkward bind!

    © Tim Grace, 9 January 2012

    To the reader: Sad or bad … I’m not sure the difference is of immediate concern; best not to engage in a cerebral debate. This moment is all that matters and making the most of it is best handled through instinct. Think too long, about your reaction, and he’ll interpret that as a responsive attack. This manoeuvre is all about a discrete retreat from a phoney-engagement. The contrived incident shatters; he’s gone… elsewhere bound; the summer storm has passed.

    To the poet: A poem like this has to brew with foreboding. The words need to jolt and clash. It has to be an uncomfortable read. It’s an incident report. The cranky context is the third-party defined in the first two words but never again mentioned. What remains is character description. The vagrant storm explodes with verbiage and then passes with no sign of abatement; the relief is an awkward conclusion.

     

    summer storm Summer Storm
    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/pGVZDXDoxnQ

     

  • SummerNats

    SummerNats

    Each year they arrive in seasonal swarms;
    they work in car-size packs of four or five;
    one driver, one chick and his social norms:
    Lead-foot Larry, Sheila, Kevin and Clive.
    They stand over engines, argue the make;
    they ogle the curves with reference to style;
    they kick the rubber and burn-out the brake;
    allude to perfection with a wry smile!
    It’s a rev-heads pilgrimage – SummerNats.
    It’s a week away with the girls at home.
    A petrol-fuelled assemblage of cool cats.
    A homage to fresh ‘tats’ and polished chrome.
    . Driven by the piston, the muffler’s grunt!
    . It’s all about horsepower, and what’s up front!

    © Tim Grace, 8 January 2012

    To the reader: Culture’s a construction built upon common codes of practice. So, once again, I’m drawn to write about people and events in time and place. In this case, the annual gathering of motor enthusiasts (rev-heads). The Summer Nationals (SummerNats) are an Australian celebration of the car at its ultimate best; it’s all about performance – and with that comes theatre. The car, the driver and the entourage are all on display – and don’t they love it!

    To the poet: A small and dense narrative, unfamiliar to a reader, needs a strong and sequential thread. This sonnet reads like a list of snap-shots; each line transitioning to the next with a quick dissolve. As a series of frames the story develops – one line at a time – each line being responsible for explaining and expanding upon those that surround it. In keeping with the style, it was important to have a final couplet that summer-ized the plot.

    summernats SummerNats
    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/Oyy8zEOMfP4

     

     

  • Fine Lines

    Fine Lines

    By the end of childhood I learned to draw
    fine lines (with keen eyes and measured skill).
    I learned to draw what mattered; to ignore
    the distractions (there were no marks for frill).
    How to overcome the errors of sight?
    How to foreshorten an odd perspective?
    These were the problems you had to get right:
    minimal tolerance for technical give.
    All things became parallel, rightly squared;
    they had to marry-well to plot or grid;
    they had to tally-well or be repaired;
    they had to mirror what the real world did.
    . After childhood there are no wonky lines;
    . they neatly straighten and become designs.

    © Tim Grace, 6 January 2012

    To the reader: At school I enjoyed technical drawing classes, they appealed to my style of measured sketch; where objects take shape according to long-held principles of linear geometry. Tools of the trade were important and taking care of them was critical to achieving a clean result. Of all the lessons I learned at school it was through technical drawing I best understood myself. I freely gave away my naive interpretation of the visual world and adopted rules that enabled me to draw what I see.

    To the poet: Between naivety and mastery lies frustration. It’s unfortunate that we abandon our fresh expression of life through naive art… but understandable. Expression, in all its forms, is a social tool that evolves to meet expanding needs. The licence to communicate has rules that can be stretched and personalised but ultimately an audience will accept or reject the value of art. Selecting an appreciative audience is one solution… avoid criticism; create your own applause.

     

    fine lines
    fine lines
  • Pallet of Paint

    Pallet of Paint

    A child’s painting is made without restraint:
    it’s vivid and vibrant, it’s bold and bright.
    A child’s canvas holds a pallet of paint:
    a bucket of brilliance and sheer delight.
    She paints a garden under sunny skies;
    dabbles the brush over petal and stem.
    She gently strokes the wings of butterflies;
    and so imagines she is one of them.
    She paints her world on a borderless page;
    with abundance her landscapes grow and stretch;
    colours explode, shapes expand; there’s no cage
    that can contain the wonders of her sketch.
    . In a child’s garden there’s room for belief,
    . a world of wonders for adult relief.

    © Tim Grace, 5 January 2012

    To the reader: We out-teach the artistic instinct in children and then hanker for its return throughout our adult years. A child’s interpretation of the world is a fairly spontaneous imitation of experience; translated using naive means. The young artist (untrained in tricks and tools of the perceptive trade) makes-do. Without mastery, a child is free of restrictions; free to draw upon raw imagination. This medium has no separation; this medium is the closest we get to living art.

    To the poet: The irony of this sonnet is its tight control over the thematic centrepiece – naive liberty. It’s an adult’s carefully scripted celebration of a child’s artistic freedom. Unfortunately, there’s a trade-off that comes with age and mastery: skill becomes an interpretative filter. The more skilled I become the more capable I am of manipulating my experiences; consequently, inspiration is overwhelmed by technique. The redeeming feature is freshness … did inspiration survive the productive ordeal?

     

    Pallet of Paint – Picture Source: http://youtu.be/RfOOAUiKFew