One More Sonnet

Tag: Time

  • Commodified

    Commodified

    You have been commodified,
    Digitized of sorts,
    Cleverly identified,
    As a string of ones and naughts.
    You have been commercialized,
    Packaged up as stock,
    Uniformly standardized,
    So your pieces interlock.
    You have been configured,
    Codified and mapped,
    Carefully considered,
    As potential to adapt.
    . You are the generation, named without a name,
    . Be you X or Y, we have made you all the same!

    © Tim Grace, 27 September 2010

    To the reader: The younger generations, we have crafted them as different; for that has served our purpose. From early childhood they have been primed for the marketplace and now they pay the price; they have been commodified. The nameless generations of X and Y have been so individualized that they are powerless to act in concert as a collective independent agent. They resort to social media for voice but that itself is a construction of those who would strip them of identity.

    To the poet: The globalized economy has impacted on how we express the human condition. Life has become digitized, commercialized, and standardized; commodified, identified, and codified. As we describe ourselves we are likely to live. The use of ‘you’ as a distinctive label helps in the creation of distance and separation. From the narrator’s perspective the deal has been done; the package has been sold.

     

    commodified commodified

     

  • Not a Temple

    Not a Temple

    In the midst of all humanity
    At the centre of our core
    Where commonsense and sanity
    Bring reason to the fore.
    There’s a comfortable liaison
    An inner peace of mind
    Free from all invasion
    From tanglement and bind
    Here we find tranquility
    A balancing of thoughts
    The essence of stability
    A sanctuary of sorts
    . Somewhere transcendental – a perfect line
    . Not a temple, neither monument nor shrine.

    © Tim Grace, 6 August 2010

    To the reader: Finding tranquility in the midst of chaos is no easy task but it’s a key to surviving the rat race. To some extent spiritual establishments provide a solid but artificial solution. They offer a sanctum of silence from which to escape into isolation until the self is sufficiently restored. The more mobile and accessible solution is to draw upon inner resources that overcome the confusion of chaos through quiet reflection. For me, restoration is achieved through meditative moments with a coffee or pen in hand.

    To the poet: To highlight the difference between a transcendental state and a spiritual place this sonnet plays with positional phrases; the first three lines begin with in, at, and where. The second four lines, themselves in a mid-point, enter the inner sanctum of the self at peace. The last of the four line stanzas is descriptive of an essence given a substantive location … albeit transcendental.

     

    not a temple not a temple
  • Careful Stride

    Careful Stride

    I rode upon an elephant
    By name of Raja Khan
    His pedigree was excellent
    The pride of Pakistan
    In stature he was solid
    A figure fine and firm
    As strong as he was stolid
    An impressive pachyderm
    Aloof and somewhat nervous
    He earned his reputation
    Through dedicated service
    To palace transportation
    . With careful stride and gentle sway
    . He set the pace of a yesterday.

    © Tim Grace, 10 May 2010

    To the reader: I imagine days of empire being stiff as starch; stodgy. Stifled by establishment that imposed upon the underclassses rigid rules and regulations designed to further entrench the advantages of birth and social position. But, attached to my construction of the past is a stolid image best portrayed by the permanence of a slow moving pachyderm. In the elephant’s gentle sway I see remnants of a yesterday when circumspect rhythms gave poise to forward motions.

    To the poet: A simple little poem, neat and compact; some might say trite. A parlor painting lost of real significance but nonetheless holding its place on the wall as it has done for many generations. The very short lines are packed with alliteration and because of brevity tend to over emphasize the forced rhymings. In an attempt to help the narrative flow unbroken through the sonnet I’ve given it no punctuation … save the final period.

     

    careful stride careful stride
  • Ever the Measure

    Ever the Measure

    None of us would stand a chance
    If time did have its way,
    With the certainty of circumstance
    At odds we’d have to stay.
    If time was let to run its course,
    To stop and start at will,
    We’d live our lives in deep remorse
    And all would be there still.
    If time ignored the pendulum
    And tomorrow never came,
    We’d have no rules on when to come
    And the prompt would have no claim.
    . The power of the hour we may hope to regulate,
    . But ever is the measure we are left to contemplate.

    © Tim Grace, 10 April 2010

     

    To the reader: At best we only ever grow to understand the value of time. If not to be wasted, time’s ultimate currency of conversion must be experience. Spending time to understand time is therefore a worthwhile pursuit … a pursuit we call planning. Through planning we maximize opportunities to work with, rather than against, the tyranny of time.

    To the poet: The long/short syllabic rhythm of the first eight paired lines are satisfying. Later in my sonnet writing I buckled under and became more consistent in adhering to the Shakespearian iambic-pentameter. At this stage, I was using my own natural (naive) rhythm that appears to be expressed in a ratio of about 8 to 6 syllables per pair of lines. The last two lines (the final couplet) are very long and contain internal rhymes that might be clever, but do nothing to help the poem end on a rhythmic high.

     

    ever the measure ever the measure
  • She Comes of Age

    She Comes of Age

    By luck, or good fortune, she comes of age,
    And come she does with fitness.
    In steps of seven, three to a stage,
    We’ve held our breath in witness.
    So… with an awkward start; but a rallied march,
    She promised nothing simple:
    “Come” she said “I’ll soften starch,
    Things look better with a crimple!”
    And so, we marched into the fray,
    For that’s what families do!
    Ill prepared and in dismay
    We held to what we knew…
    As hard as it might be, be there when it matters,
    For when love is a cushion, it rarely ever shatters.

    © Tim Grace, 11 March 2010

     

    To the reader: Parenting is not a construction activity. Children don’t arrive in kit form to be assembled in pieces. If not built, then sculpted? The child, as a sculpting medium, comes in a soft or rigid state. Those formed of malleable clay are easily worked into shape; their edges are smooth and their curves well rounded. Those chipped out of marble are delicately stubborn and easily broken; they require careful attention to detail and are difficult to repair if shattered… use the mallet skilfully.

    To the poet: Poetry is biography; born of experience it should reflect life’s highs and lows. Sentimentality is a literary tool that replaces reality with an overlay of sweet substitutes. It washes away the richness of extremes, blunts sharp edges and glosses over fissures. The sentimentalist arranges nice narrative and pretty prose to avoid the difficult dilemma. In this coming of age sonnet I’ve avoided the brutality of bluntness but left no room for misinterpretation… this was no easy journey.

     

    Comes of age Comes of age
  • Still She Sits

    Still She Sits

    And still she sits in waiting,
    Deep within her shell.
    No point in contemplating,
    As to when she might expel.
    She’s not driven by a calendar,
    Nor woken by the sun.
    She’s not a starlit wanderer
    On her monthly run.
    No bolt of electricity
    Will generate her storm.
    Naked with simplicity
    It’s so she finds her form.
    . She’s the fickle child of a wondrous thought,
    . She’s a child, a brain child, that won’t be caught.

    © Tim Grace, April 2010

    To the reader: There are so many aspects to life that just can’t be chased down or forced into submission. We gain nothing from bullying a butterfly. Simple pleasures are attracted to those who appreciate and nurture the quality of relationships. It’s through patience, not cajoling, that pleasures are expressed … good things come to those who wait.

    To the poet: The rhythmic structure of this sonnet is more lyric than poetic. The line lengths are variable and do little to help the reader establish a comfortable meter. Nonetheless, it does move along in three blocks of four-lined stanzas. Each block of thought reads like a statement; but true to the theme of the poem, the statement fails to capture the essence of this illusive female form.

    Crisilis crisilis