One More Sonnet

Tag: Time

  • 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

     

     

     

  • 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
  • Happy New Year

    Happy New Year

    Standing on the other side of last year.
    I’m yet to move, or even lightly tread
    upon the surface of a new frontier;
    I’m yet to commit to the days ahead.
    I’m debating the size of the first stride,
    contemplating its gravity, its weight
    and direction. I am yet to decide
    upon its meaning – and there’s the debate;
    there’s the question, that has me standing still:
    am I to leap forward without reserve,
    throw caution to the wind, let milk spill,
    and in its flow, let go this timid nerve?
    . The first step is steeped with expectation,
    . bound to itself – gripped with hesitation.

    © Tim Grace, 1 January 2012

    To the reader: Happy New Year – reassurance really – in the face of hesitant acceptance. We charge our glasses, count down the seconds and gaze skyward; fireworks outshine the brightest constellations – a new year is born! As decreed, it’s with resolve we all step forth, each with our own bundle of wishes and aspirations for the coming year. But old habits die hard… too soon this fresh stride becomes last year’s steady gait; and the stroll through life continues its wanderous way!

    To the poet: Playing with words is the joy of poetry. Interlocking syntax and semantics. Wrestling word against word, phrase against phrase until a truesful fit is found; one surrenders its meaning the other its virtue; tension and abeyance ever present. The fight can be brutal (not brittle) always honest; best of all bloody and bruising. A good poem reflects the good fight; nothing comes easy so it’s best we enjoy the struggle.

     

    happy new year
    http://youtu.be/ayA95XsbJeU

    Photo Source: http://youtu.be/ayA95XsbJeU

     

  • Steady State

    Steady State

    As weeks become months, so months become years;
    and so it is that all things become one.
    It’s why things merge as distinction nears,
    It’s why things flow and with rivers run.
    Between two points we imagine spaces,
    and yet between two trees a forest grows.
    We invent voids between distant places;
    recognise columns, but ignore the rows.
    For convenience sake we subdivide
    the river of life into segments small,
    then wonder why the stream cannot provide
    baskets of abundance; plenty for all.
    . current – a ready date, that’s here and now.
    . current – a steady rate, an endless vow.

    Tim Grace, 31 December 2011

    To the reader: Systems within systems. A constant stream of energy feeding the fire from within. The onward flow is effortless. The complete constancy of life is the travellers joy; being at one with the journey is the real destination. Too much concentration on the stop-start details and we become distracted; events become activities; life becomes staccato: “signifies a note of shortened duration, separated from the note that may follow by silence”.

    To the poet: The flow of any poem is important; all the more so if your poem is about flow itself. In writing a poem, the internal voice is constantly providing feedback on the inner and outer workings of a script. Most of my sonnets develop over a few days of working. In that time, the lines are re-read hundreds of times until I’m happy with every element of connective tissue. To some extent, through rehearsal and revision, my spontaneity is contrived.

     

    steady state
    steady state

     

  • Now Complete

    Now Complete

    This year is now complete, finished, exposed
    to the reflective gaze of history’s view.
    This year’s open doors have now been closed:
    shut tight, sealed off, and bid farewell; adieu…
    In the finish of a year we rejoice.
    It’s fitting we take a moment to pause.
    It’s OK too, that with some pride we voice
    our achievements and tally-up our scores…
    And so ends another year; outnumbered,
    full-sum spent; used but not digested;
    completed with a cheer; disencumbered
    of journal’s jot – evermore let rested…
    . This year is done, finished; so too its might.
    . You don’t tie an new string to last year’s kite.

    Tim Grace, 28 December 2011

    To the reader: Circles circling circles; and so, years come and go – the familiar pattern repeats. Our spiralling experience of time, as repetition, turns days into days, and weeks into weeks. Without the cycling-nature of all things revolving we would have no opportunity or need to learn from experience. Without repetition the past has no relevance. When we are lost we travel in circles … spiralling forth; making use of our past.

    To the poet: “Fly yourself a brand new kite” What was the poet thinking? “With one year’s completion comes certainty; nothing can be added or subtracted… the year’s experience is fully described; saturated. For just a short while deep reflection is encouraged. In losing its current status ‘last year’ is now open to interpretation… and the rest is history”. Happy New Year!

     

    now complete now complete