One More Sonnet

Tag: writing

  • Trigger Point

    Trigger Point

    It’s claimed ‘the gun is innocent’ … guiltless;
    absolved of all responsibility.
    A much maligned artefact, mere witness
    to bloodshed … has no culpability.
    Left then to wonder, left in state of stun.
    ‘Pursuit of happiness … justice and peace’
    Doubt’s made a target of the smoking gun.
    Trigger-point stand-off with hair-pin release.
    Struggling to make sense, tense with disbelief.
    Broken logic, broken hearts, broken dreams,
    shattered confidence; consequence is grief.
    To bear arms, not as simple as it seems.
    . Nothing gained by force is a remedy.
    . What worth is a good man with enmity?

    © Tim Grace, 26 December 2012

    To the reader: What relationship would prosper on the promulgation of fear and suspicion? Not one that values the pursuit of happiness. By nature, the trigger-happy fool is impulsive and irresponsible; prone to late apology; an after-thought. The perceived need to self-protect describes an individualistic ideology where social order is mistrusted; it’s the breeding ground for gun-toting rhetoric and double-barrelled nonsense.

    To the poet: With this sonnet my aim was broad. I took a scatter-gun approach to the target. A rat-a-tat list of ideas that sprayed shrapnel far and wide. On the rambling range, I used a metaphoric weapon that had no respect for its victim. Collateral damage was an unfortunate consequence, tolerated as expected impact. The late volta (the swivel at line 12) took final aim… in case the point was missed.

    Trigger Point Trigger Point
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/Zzxwr4tdohw
  • Desk Message

    Desk Message

    Not a year that went exactly as planned:
    melodrama, tragedy and high farce.
    Controversial guests that denied the bland
    intent of pleasant passage come to pass.
    We’ve managed (despite these guests) to cope
    with upset, and to patch-up those mistakes
    that through repair addressed the slippery slope.
    We’ve all learnt something: learnt what it takes
    to muddle-on, to pull-back from the brink;
    to keep calm; bunker down and take it slow.
    With stoic grit, we’ve learnt to neither blink
    nor shrink from scandal’s shame or worry’s woe.
    . We are the better for adversity.
    . So claims the wisdom of perversity.

    © Tim Grace, 6 December 2012

    To the reader: I worked with a colleague who muddled his way through a year of workplace calamities. Piles of paperwork spilled over his desk; nothing got finished; technologies failed, and deadlines passed. With such hopeless organisational skills, other staff watched-on in dismay. His boss gave up all hope of a supervised solution; so the problem just got worse. The disconnect widened and office isolation became entrenched.

    To the poet: I left a card somewhere on his desk. An end-of-year message that added precarious height to an existing pile of paper. And so began this sonnet. It’s not about ‘him’ more informed by his various predicaments. His office isolation (somewhat self-imposed) reminded me of brackets. Brackets (here exampled) recognise a necessary petition of parts; inclusive features, distinct in nature… describes him well.

    Desk Mess-age Desk Mess(age)
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/zqQby6sZ2rU
  • I Love You

    I Love You

    From love, love borrows that which love has lent.
    When love says: “I love you” love says the same.
    And so love is a circular argument.
    It’s a roundabout affair; claim for claim.
    “Good night” love says, the same is love’s reply.
    “Sweet dreams” love says, anointed with a kiss.
    “Sleep tight” love says, so starts a lullaby.
    When love says “I’m here” there’s nothing amiss;
    Love’s partner is love, together complete.
    It’s through confirmation that love endures.
    “I love you” said once, deserves repeat.
    “I love you” and “I love you” reassures.
    . Upon love’s roundabout, spins love’s intent,
    . With each return, there rides love’s sentiment.

    © Tim Grace, 18 November 2012

    To the reader: The structure of the heart has it working two-parts as one. The circulation of a life-force makes it the ideal metaphor for ‘love-central’. With responsive rhythm, the heart renews and refreshes. It’s no coincidence then, that living and loving are such united motivations. Together they fulfil our physical and emotional needs; one fuels, the other fires.

    To the poet: Sentiment is an ink that never fully dries. Its wet nature bleeds and smudges at the slightest touch. To control the flow of sentiment takes the skill of a water-colourist. The risk of over-working is ever-present; accident and incident are heavy handed partners. Sentiment is a translucent medium that washes over page and canvas with diffusive effect; a touch too much and recognition is lost.

    I Love You I Love You
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/oyCgQtCXXn8
  • Fears Not Dust

    Fears Not Dust

    Degas fears not dust, but the hand of man.
    His art is that of motion not of bronze.
    His shuttered frame’s neither still nor frozen.
    From moment to moment his art responds.
    He seeks the illusion of transfered weight;
    forward leaning movements lunging at space.
    He seeks expression through a fluid state;
    liquid locomotion spilled into place.
    See the bathing women, the jockeyed horse,
    the ballerinas giving curtain call,
    the girls with flowers, and himself of course;
    none paint a picture showing life at stall.
    . The subtle suggestion of swing and sway,
    . Creates the impression of dance at play.

    © Tim Grace, 4 November 2012

    To the reader: “What’s more static than a statued dancer?” Degas was challenged by the limitations of ‘snapshot’ art. The idea of capturing a static scene brought him little interest. His more intriguing challenge came through art that suggested something beyond the instant of creation. Through pose and posture, Degas gave his subjects impetus; his scenes momentum. Therein lies the power of degas … in every moment there’s fresh potential.

    To the poet: Like moths to light, experts love controvacy:”Degas, one suspects, was turning in his grave. Before his death in 1917, he repeatedly expressed concern that charlatans might highjack his legacy by casting his sculptures in bronze and selling them to collectors, and is said to have told his fellow painter Georges Rouault, ‘What I fear most is not dust but the hand of man.’” And that article in Bloomberg Business (by William D Cohan) triggered my poetic interest.

    Fears Not Dust Fears Not Dust
    Picture Source:
    http://www.medici.tv/mobile/la-petite-danseuse-de-degas-patrice-bart-world-premiere-opera-garnier
  • Out of Nothing

    Out of Nothing

    Make something out of nothing. Justify
    effort. Zero sum. Write a nil report
    on emptiness with white clouds on blue sky.
    Null and void substance. Abstractions of nought.
    Make something out of nothing. Vacant plot
    is fertile ground. Those yet to be employed
    give vacuous answers to diddly squat?
    No. Nothing’s wasted, dismissed or destroyed.
    Make something out of nothing. Emphasise
    oblivion’s negative force. Contrive
    an essence that permeates emptiness.
    New things from no things; from all things derive.
    . Emptiness – surely it’s something of sorts.
    . Needs invention through series of thoughts.

    © Tim Grace, 28 October 2012

    or…

    Make something out of nothing, zero sum
    the universe with far too many noughts.
    Measure the emptiness of kingdom come;
    biblical proportions in bleak reports.
    Occupy heaven with a vacant stare;
    a blank expression holds no depth of field.
    Focus on oblivion … who’s to care
    that eternity has its future sealed.
    Porous impressions given a thin coat
    of certainty beyond a lick of paint.
    Into the distance we adopt remote
    orbits; avoiding gravity’s restraint
    . Exploring principles of uncertainty
    . through the empty eyes of modernity.

    © Tim Grace, 15 May 2016

    To the reader: We have so many ways of describing the absence of anything else; from oblivion to nirvana. In oblivion, nothingness, like all else, has no value. In the vast void of oblivion’s estate all good purpose is lost; given to waste. Nirvana, on the other hand is a transcendental realm of nothingness. We reach ‘Nirvana’ through a heightened state of being; where upon, through the absence of all else, we find eternal happiness beyond the necessities of existence.

    To the poet: “What’s nothing but the invention of nought” This sonnet is a far cry from the draft I wrote in October, 2012. In its original form, the text was strangled by internal reference to a poorly defined subject. Failure was somewhat understandable as the poem’s confused protagonist was nothing more than nothing. In the final version, I’ve stripped away the physical narrative to emphasise the transcendental phrasing … meaning on its way to nothingness.

    Out of Nothing
    Out of Nothing
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/A1evxMA7yYw
  • To some extent…

    To some extent…

    A thoughtful pose has contemplative poise;
    its purpose is more poignant than profound.
    In posture it’s positioned and so deploys
    a line of thought before it breaks new ground.
    It’s a ponderous thought without anchor;
    not hooked to certainty, not chained to proof,
    not pitched to ruffle, or raised to ranker;
    as ever prudent it remains aloof.
    To some extent it loiters with intent;
    seeking permission before intrusion.
    Along with due regard it’s time well spent:
    ‘Blessed is the thought without conclusion’
    . Contemplation … preserves the pragmatic.
    . Reservation … rescues the erratic..

    © Tim Grace, 20 October 2012

    To the reader: Avoiding the arrogance of certainty requires reservation. For those endowed with high-powered intellects, and an impulsive nature, being thoughtful is a challenge. Their ability to be cautious in conclusion is often over-ridden by a narrow spark of brilliance that out-shines the soft-light of wisdom. Because they thrive on instancy they contrive urgent environments that demand quick solutions … but what of the question that has no answer?

    To the poet: … blessed is the thought without conclusion. To pause in a suspended state of wonder feeds imagination, fuels curiosity, opens the mind to a range of possibilities. My poetry is like that… the rules of sonnet writing conveniently slow down the thought process to a mindful state of awareness. In my opinion, being a meditative amusement, the sonnet is best cooked slowly. There are other forms of poetry that celebrate spontaneity; to them I tip my hat.

    To some extent... To some extent…
    Picture Source:
    http://youtu.be/rRKpo1_oiqY