One More Sonnet

Tag: writing

  • 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

     

  • Dark Lady?

    Dark Lady?

    Is she the dark lady that last night claimed
    she knew the provenance of broken dreams?
    Is she the same woman who last night aimed
    her demons in my direction? It seems
    she holds a deep quarry of dredged-up digs;
    a deep pit of misery; a pack of black cards
    that she plays to her advantage; reneges
    at will… cheats … and then with honour guards
    her dignity; a thin veil of powder;
    a dusting, a coating, sheer nonsense;
    more transparent as the voice gets louder:
    more desperate, more dismal, more dark and dense.
    . Who is this lady that delights in black?
    . What shady memories does she welcome back?

    Tim Grace, 23 December 2011

    To the reader: Temper fuelled rage is an ugly and primitive demeanour that rises from the brain’s deeper recesses. For most of us we learn to control that ‘cantankerous monster’ as we outgrow the deployment of two-year old tantrums. For some, that taming was not so complete; producing an unpredictable and cranky adult temperament. In the grown-up world, there’s a social contract that demands a rational mind. Keeping an ‘even keel’ through stormy weather is not easy. Managing frustration and torment without resorting to anger is a prized habit of mind; well worth the effort in the preservation of long-lasting relationships.

    To the poet: The angry tirade, often delivered in a single passage of free-flowing vitriol, is intended to over-ride the calm response. Throughout an angry exchange the tarry is designed to be quick and the verbal blows are short and sharp. The aggressor in an angry exchange will escalate the intensity… their ploy is to attack not defend. Any attempt to de-escalate will meet with hostility. This sonnet is bookmarked by two sets of questions… the answer lies within.

     

    dark lady? dark lady?

    Picture Source: http://youtu.be/0sqMBOjrUeg

     

  • Novel Opportunities

    Novel Opportunities

    Favourable conditions affording new
    and novel opportunities to grow
    the market, to expand upon the view;
    Horizons!!! – here today gone tomorrow.
    Windows that open up to the sky, to all
    prepared to venture forth, to ride the wave
    towards new shores; prepared to rise and fall
    along with the fool-hardy and the brave.
    See that which is old become new again:
    re-released, re-branded, given new guise;
    to be let loose on green pastures; fed then
    on eternal hope, to await the prize.
    . Now is the time of opportunity.
    . Beyond now … there is no certainty.

    Tim Grace, 6 December 2011

    To the reader: Nothing ventured, nothing gained… a fool and his money are easily parted. The idea of investing in tomorrow assumes a favourable future. But common-sense tells us the future is an uncertain opportunity. Its attachment to now is fragile and with time quickly adjusts to new and unpredictable circumstances. The further from now that we invest the higher is our risk, the greater is our reward. Those that play the market need to know the rules and accept the consequences.

    To the poet: This sonnet has a complex structure that leans heavily on syntax to carry its semantics. I had attended an investment seminar and been barraged with financial jargon; way beyond my understanding. The investment industry, like any other, has a deep meta-language that translates poorly into laymen terms. As a skater, I picked up the message, guessed at its meaning… and wrote a poem! These are my notes…

     

    image

  • 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
  • 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

     

  • Parallel Dimension

    Parallel Dimension

    At the same time being and becoming,
    Letting go of now,
    It’s the whistle while you’re humming,
    With the puzzlement of how.
    To be the parent of tomorrow,
    And the child of today,
    With the sentiment of sorrow,
    That promises to stay.
    To be oneself and find contentment,
    But to know it won’t endure,
    To struggle with resentment,
    You’re safe but not secure.
    . In a parallel dimension do we still exist?
    . Do archived remnants of ourselves persist?

    © Tim Grace, 10 October 2010

    To the reader: The multi-layered dimensions of life are not neatly stacked into rows nor columns. In a physical sense most of what we did yesterday is irretrievably gone. Likewise, tomorrow’s organization is as much fantasy as it is fact. And so today becomes the main arena, the fleeting zone of action and influence. By necessity then, much of what is done is overlapped with conflicting pressures and contrasting roles; all at once occurring.

    To the poet: The subject of this sonnet is the conundrum. The persistent puzzle of being and becoming all at once. The challenge of writing a convincing argument about puzzlement is to end it still in wonder; and so the last two lines are questions. In this sonnet the rhyming structure (ABAB) could be split into two halves (AABB) and almost keep its sense of narrative.

     

    parallel dimension
    parallel dimension