One More Sonnet

Tag: Time

  • Christmas Bells

    Christmas Bells

    It’s not for Christmas bells to gong or clang;
    it’s not for them to peal a raucous ding.
    Much better they’d be given space to hang;
    above December’s list of songs to sing.
    Much better they’d be, not to steal the rhyme;
    not to pound the tune with a cymbal’s clash.
    Much better they’d be, with a subtle chime;
    it’s not for them to sound too bold or brash.
    It’s not for Christmas bells to pull on rope;
    nor assume the role of prima donna.
    Much better they’d be, spreading festive hope;
    Lifting spirits is their role of honour.
    . The sound of Christmas is a jingling bell.
    . It’s the gift of Christmas that does us well.

    Tim Grace, 14 December 2011

     

    To the reader: The merry sound of Christmas is a small cluster of jingling bells. For the festive season we can put aside the strident trumpets and the pounding drums; preferring jingling bells as soft accompaniment to a chorus of carols. The nativity scene is at peace with bells-a-jingling. Bells are responsive instruments that react to the slightest movement with a tinkling trill. Their volume nicely equates to their quantity; the more the merrier!

    To the poet: This sonnet is harmless, hopefully not charmless, in delivering a festive message. Christmas carols rise to a crescendo and then fall out of favour; as with seasonal fruit, we gorge and then reject. Carols, and likewise this sonnet, are often overcome with a lightweight message that requires technical assistance for rescue. Strained merriment is hardly convincing.

     

    christmas bells christmas bells
  • Reason’s Reference

    Reason’s Reference

    For millennia we have scribed our thoughts;
    put pen to paper and as such preserved
    all manner of inspiration… all sorts
    of wonder. So conscripted, we’ve conserved
    in good faith the font of reason’s reference.
    Forever more attached, writ and listed:
    sentenced, word-by-word, the very essence
    of a flourish: styled but never twisted.
    Written as to permeate our culture,
    bold-stroked messages indelibly inked
    to imitate form, or shape a future
    world; built upon words, most beautifully linked.
    . It’s the cursive script of pen or quill,
    . that reveals the hand of a writer’s will.

    Tim Grace, 14 December 2011

    To the reader: I was wondering… were the Egyptians able to turn a poetic phrase in hieroglyphic form? In search of an answer, I stumbled on the ‘Lettrist Movement’ led by Isidore Isou; post the second world war. Lettrism’s Manifesto rallied against the atomised letter and the destructive power of the word. Far from enabling freedom of thought, lettrists perceived letters and words as insidious links in a constricting chain; manipulated by the literati. According to Lettrism, the hieroglyph does less damage in transporting and translating an experience across a thoughtful medium such as poetry. I’m still wondering…

    To the poet: Letterism aside, preservation of a word-based poem requires a script that will authentically transport a message through time and space; so that some time later… the distant reader can retrieve their own uniquely crafted assembly of ideas. In scripting a poem, the skill is in the crafted management of its future impact on the reader. Used too functionally, too literally, the script can lack fertile nuance and starve the text of ambiguous translation; for at the heart of reading and writing poetry is creative interpretation.

     

    reason's reference
    reason’s reference

     

  • Our Daily Grind

    Our Daily Grind

    And so we go about our daily chores,
    adding and subtracting along the way.
    Consuming and then replenishing stores.
    Earning our keep, converting work into pay.
    And thus, we spin the mill, our daily grind;
    with mundane achievements barely listed;
    rarely noticed, granted but never signed.
    A backdrop for all our needs insisted;
    and this, if named, would be our daily bread.
    It’s what we do given functional sake;
    it’s the substance that lies beneath the spread;
    it’s the sliced-up loaf, not the iced-up cake;
    . By what means is this day improved?
    . By all means, in many ways manoeuvred.

    Tim Grace, 1 December 2011

    To the reader: Without monotony the human spirit can deal with routine pressures. If the grind is productive we will happily put our shoulders to the wheel. In physical terms, the mechanics of ‘return on effort’ can be expressed as a mathematical transfer of energy in a closed system. In philosophical terms, motivation is the lever; its efficiency improves with recognition and reward.

    To the poet: I’m currently reading a book about how the Beatles wrote their lyrics. As described, some were inspired and others simply milled themselves into processed vinyl; through a ‘Hard Day’s Work’. Without the daily grind, without the hack-work, there was nothing to nurture the beautiful moments of lyrical inspiration penned by John, Paul; and occasionally George. A Beatles’ Album, with its highs and lows will outstrip a ‘best of compilation’ … if inspiration is the measure.

     

    our daily grind
    our daily grind
  • Common Threads

    Common Threads

    I collect nuts and bolts by the roadside,
    it’s an odd assortment of random finds.
    Some are obvious and easily spied:
    they are those that shine before the rust binds
    itself to their surface. New to the road
    they have not nestled into hidden nooks,
    nor taken the hit of a heavy load,
    they retain the shape of their fresh made looks;
    in every sense new to my collection.
    As alluvial pickings they hold
    the shimmer and shine of self-selection;
    unweathered, yet to have their history told.
    . So, what of this collection can be said?
    . Nothing more true… than its a common thread.

    Tim Grace, 29 November 2011

    To the reader: Late 2011, I was seeking more from work than work could offer. Tedium was broken with a break for lunch that included a walk around the neighbouring streets. Always the tinkerer, I have an eye for nuts and bolts and this led to a surprisingly large, and quickly accrued, collection of threaded metal. An odd amusement but easily construed as metaphor: the world unwinds as road spill.

    To the poet: Hardly a great poem, but then again, it actually describes a very real and raw time in my working career; when the most stimulating part of the day was a lunchtime walk. Each piece of road-spill is a poem in itself. The shiny collectables are obvious and attractive, but as in this poem it’s through them we describe the true character of a common thread; toughened steel.

     

    common threads common threads

     

  • Constant & Endless

    Constant & Endless

    I am the universe, of all things made.
    I am the nothingness, that vast expanse.
    I am the treasury of life’s parade.
    I am the first step, I am the last dance.
    You are the timely natural consequence
    of that which occurs and comes to pass.
    You are the perfect, ideal, confluence
    of all things given to a common class.
    We are the harvest, the expectation;
    we are the whole, much greater than its parts.
    We are the wonder, the fascination;
    we are the child of Science and the Arts.
    . Together… one drop in a constant stream.
    . Together… one stitch in an endless seam.

    Tim Grace, 27 November 2011

    To the reader: A description of everything must include thought; not just the enactment of thought. Any mental configuration is a construct of the universe. To claim that anything, once thought, doesn’t exist is a fallacy. Our power to imagine does not exist outside the universe. If we imagine an omnipotent power then such a Thing exists. Any claim that the Thing does not exist is as questionable as the original figment of imagination that created the Thing. We can argue about the Thing but not of its existence … it has been thought, therefore it exists; for good or ill.

    To the poet: In providing commentary to this cluster of poems it’s obvious that at the time of writing them (in late 2011) I was conscious of the sonnet’s fourteen-line shape. There’s a regular use of four-line blocks visually similar; architectural in design. The stanzas are built like reinforced pillars preparing the way for a capstone-couplet. Some where, I recall reading, the sonnet is a poetic form that mirrors the Golden Ratio.

     

    constant & endless constant & endless

     

  • Peace Extols

    Peace Extols

    Most days come and go, not so with this one.
    This one lingers somewhat longer than most.
    This one reminds us of the good we’ve done.
    Of this ‘one day’ we neither brag nor boast.
    There’s a sombreness about this ‘one day’.
    It’s the ‘one day’ of all days when we pause
    to acknowledge the fallen and to pray
    that in their memory we recognise the cause
    that gave them their reason to sacrifice,
    so selflessly, their gold and silver themes;
    and then to give, regardless of the price,
    a new set of hopes, a new set of dreams.
    . Let this ‘one day’ bring comfort to their souls,
    . for they have earned the rest that peace extols.

    © Tim Grace, 11 November 2011

    To the reader: Sombre and respectful, as they are, collective commemorations are reassuring; an inter-generational confirmation of commitment to each others’ national interests. Often sprinkled through the calendar that ‘one day’ is loaded with patriotic symbolism. That ‘one day’ bares the burden of testimony. We are reminded of heroic deeds of self-sacrifice and strength of character; drawn to action in the face of unimaginable fear. Those that died on our behalf … we will remember them; they died in war, they rest in peace.

    To the poet: The current of a flowing river is to some extent just a mathematical calculation. Given no reason to do otherwise, a river that follows its direction without resistance or impedance will behave predictably; without much character. This sonnet begins like that… four steady sentences to begin with. But then, the river of words begin to flow. The next eight lines blend to form a single ribbon of sense – punctuated to give it an uneasy rippling; an agitation that finds stoic resolution; at end, the reassurance of peace.

     

    peace extols peace extols