One More Sonnet

Tag: Time

  • Afterwards

    Afterwards

    Afterwards, when there’s nothing of him left
    but a bag of bones in compounded clay,
    he asks that we not mourn, or moan bereft,
    as if scripted tight to a tragic play.
    We are not to revisit memories
    that through dredging would have our grief resumed.
    We are not to resurrect miseries,
    not to raise from earth all his bones exhumed.
    Let his body go, let it rot in peace;
    it wasn’t love got buried in this soil.
    Love shall not perish, decay or decrease;
    be content that all things but love will spoil.
    . Love can not be buried six foot under;
    . likewise, decomposed or split asunder.

    © Tim Grace, 23 August 2011

     

    To the reader: Everlasting love; enduring love; love forever more. The possibility of remembrance beyond now. Appreciation as a welcome after thought that heartens the spirit of forgotten souls. Love, an essence so delicate in life, so enduring beyond the grave. In loving memory, we release the body of its burden and for eternity seek ever-lasting peace and resolution.

    To the poet: There is a passage of Shakespeare’s sonnets (about 64 to 78) devoted to the potential of endless love. Afterwards – beyond images and artefacts; beyond graveyards and compounded clay ‘my spirit is thine, the better part of me’ (Sonnet 74). After words – ‘remember not the hand that writ it’ (Sonnet 71) for I am gone in all but spirit and soul. In his instructions to the living he implores release: let me go, let me pass… let me free.

     

    afterwards
    afterwards
  • Act of Compare

    Act of Compare

    Love writ more lovely than a summer’s day,
    less ruffled, less blemished, less deeply scarred,
    less the sullied victim of Time’s decay;
    alas, the figment of a love-bit bard.
    Dreamed far more perfect than is Nature’s deal,
    more radiant than any daisy’s blush,
    more precious than a gift from Fortune’s wheel;
    beyond the beauty of a painter’s brush.
    Love so beguiling, takes grip of each breath…
    Love so intriguing, bemuses his heart…
    Love so enduring, makes nonsense of death…
    Love so endearing, it tears him apart…
    . Contentment makes most of love’s sweet affair,
    . nothing is gained by the act of compare.

    © Tim Grace, 27 August 2011

    To the reader: We learn to measure through comparison and through this determine our tastes and preferences. We discriminate good from bad on the basis of quality; an intangible sense of excellence. That incomparable ‘youthful beauty’ might outlive the ravages of time, through ‘eternal lines’ is a romantic notion; an admirable claim: ‘Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong, my love shall in my verse ever live young.’

    To the poet: Alas… the torment of describing Love’s beauteous youthful perfection, with skill enough to defeat the tyranny of Time is nothing less than torturous. Between Sonnet 18 and Sonnet 65, Shakespeare pens every word in beauty’s defence until distracted (sleepless and exhausted) he declares in Sonnet 66 his defeat: ‘Tired of all these, for restful, death I cry (from these would I be gone) … save that to die, I leave my love alone.

     

    act of compare act of compare

     

  • Ever more

    Ever more

    “Evermore will time stand still,
    for ‘now’ has been extended.
    Through turn of phrase and stroke of quill,
    this moment is suspended.”
    And thus, he wrote of Time’s defeat,
    as conquered through his verse:
    “No more will youth through age retreat,
    as if struck by mortal curse.”
    He inscripted youth, at beauty’s prime,
    to best achieve his quip.
    Empowered-up, to temper time,
    he released its savage grip.
    . That form, given rhyme and verse: so beautiful.
    . That image, as of now: immutable.

    © Tim Grace, 21 July 2011

    To the reader: In reality, there is no such things as a pause in time; we can pause an activity but alas not time. Distorting our sense of time to suit our purposes is a useful skill. Being able to find a meditative moment amid a rush of urgency rejuvenates the soul. Of all the ‘arts’ it’s music that best allows us to adjust our sense of time; with musical accompaniment we recalibrate our tempo. Sometimes, in partnership with music, a lyric will further emphasise a restive refrain.

    To the poet: We can oversell our poetic powers. We can become besotted by our cleverness: wordage becomes verbiage; impact is dulled. In what becomes a brilliantly exhaustive passage of sonnets, Shakespeare openly struggles to outwit Time’s corrosive effect on the perfect patina of life; as expressed through Spring’s expression of youth. With every power, vested to a poet, Shakespeare mounts his case only to realise the futility of cause … “o, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out, against the wrackful siege of battering days… Time decays (Sonnets 64 & 65).

     

    evermore evermore

     

  • So Be Twins

    So Be Twins

    Time and nature so be twins;
    in course, they groove the one same rut.
    As one turns the other spins;
    so stems a common strut.
    Nature is but time expressed;
    the two can not be parted.
    Once in seasons we invest
    then sewn the end’s been started.
    All things, from nature bred,
    succumb to time’s rotation.
    Youthful beauty so is shed
    through weathered maturation.
    . It is with pen he inks a perfect line;
    . outwits the jinx of self-design.

    © Tim Grace, 17 July 2011

    To the reader: Nature and time are inseparable not interchangeable. Nature is the producer: ever ready to compromise; endlessly adapting as circumstances change. Time is the consumer: demanding and impatient; in one hand a scythe the other a sickle. Seen together (as in reap the harvest) there appears a partnership but this is not based on negotiation; nothing more than convenience. Without a perpetual contract nature has learnt not to resist time. Through accommodation nature extends and also yields its fleeting crop.

    To the poet: In sonnets 17 and 18, Shakespeare changes tack regarding the power of procreation. If youthful beauty stubbornly resists its duty to duplicate by means of perpetual parenting then alternative methods must be found. To a poet it seems obvious that words perfectly written can capture youth and outwit Time. With new zeal, Shakespeare takes it upon himself to write a poem that leaves the beauty of youth beyond compare; beyond Time’s destruction.

    so be twins so be twins
  • Golden Harvest

    Golden Harvest

    In none too subtle terms he stated
    the consequence of wasted harvest.
    He pitied those who contemplated
    taking to the grave a treasure chest
    of spring-time sweets and summer jewels.
    He reminded those, who chose to self-invest,
    that unstoked love consumes; more so than fuels.
    In wisdom, nature’s rules suggest
    beauty thrives on life repeated;
    and so, laments the spinster’s nest
    and he who loves himself conceited.
    . Time strips beauty of its youthful zest,
    . the womb, not the tomb, does future best.

    © Tim Grace, 10 July 2011

    To the reader: In an agricultural age, full of uncertainty, populate or perish must have been an accepted adage; giving guidance to family planning. In his first handful of sonnets, Shakespeare’s advice to a youthful sire is to go forth and spread his seeds in beauty’s empty fields. The agricultural advice promotes a robust tillage of vacant plots; making the most of spring-time’s lustful days for “thou art thy mother’s glass, and she in thee, calls back the lovely April of her prime”.

    To the poet: Just as one word does not make a sentence nor does one reading of one sonnet suffice to meet Shakespeare’s purpose. The various sets of sonnets were written over a short enough period to have overlapping features that connect them as siblings to a family. One word will evolve its use (niggard); and phrases will roll one into another, as with: golden time (3), on a golden pilgrimage (7) to his gold complexion dimmed(18).

     

    golden harvest
    golden harvest
  • With Such Precision

    With Such Precision

    You write with such precision.
    You bemoan your broken quill.
    You complain of love’s condition.
    You would have the world stand still.
    The more you force contentment,
    as would appear your goal,
    the more you’ll meet resentment:
    … you’re a prisoner on parole.
    Let go the restless musings
    that cripple future dreams,
    accept the harmless bruisings:
    … be at peace with how it seems.
    . Take the best of your convictions,
    . make the least of your restrictions.

    © Tim Grace, 5 June 2011

     

    To the reader: Shakespeare was a ‘grumpy old man’ when it came to his relationship with time; frustrated to say the least. Time, whether past, present or yet to come, caused him angst. He riled against its ravages, scoffed at its seasons, and bemoaned its brevity. He proposed solutions (the womb, the word, eternal love) and then realised their futility… “ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate, that Time will come and take my love away.” (sonnet 64)

    To the poet: Ellipsis… threepence for your thoughts; or was that just a penny. In the absence of any other form of punctuation the ellipsis often suffices. In an informal sense, the shortening of a sentence is a convenient starting point… maybe a soft ending. For a poet, supposedly a wordsmith, over use of the ellipsis might be considered lazy…

     

    with such precision
    with such precision