Hi Arthur,
Using couplets for sonnets is interesting! The finest one I've read is one
by John Clare, called "Nutting" (just read it for pleasure sometime, it's
well anthologised, should be readable in a library, it's a fine sensitive
poem!)
There's a way in which there's only the word "sneakers" that hints at these
being contemporary for me. The tone of the language - and the way I find my
reading voice stresses the descriptive words, the adjectives and adverbs, in
the lines makes it all feel kinda ol fashioned.
I think I'm always aware of a great distance between the writer and the
subject. So much so that when I read the line:
"O, say, can you see how tunes of glory fade." I almost want to say "No,
they're too far away from me! Maybe too far from him as well!" (Grin). (That
O's a bit iffy, too...)
I like the idea of sonnets and narrative, though!
So I was a bit taken by surprise by the 3rd one.
I think I'd play a game with the poems. Cut out every adjectival/adverbial
phrase and don't allow any back in that sound in any way poetic...
Bob
(who knows english in more eastern parts of the world retains old fashioned
style and idioms in its written forms, but who knows english is changing
everywhere!)
>From: arthur seeley <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: A Wreath of Sonnets
>Date: Sun, 16 Feb 2003 10:28:09 -0000
>
> A Wreath of Sonnets
>
>
> (i)
>
> The Moon’s child.
>
>He breathes the moth-winged deeps of night,
>the mosque's pool scatters thorns of light,
>perfumes diffuse, blooms of frangipani spill
>across the moon-cut shadows on his sill.
>
>He recalls and bows his head, bewildered,
>the dirt-kohled lids of rag-haired children,
>their doe-dark eyes, their night tears’ bead.
>No draughts of prayer have filled their hollowed need.
>
>The alphabet of moonlight on the pool,
>the glimmered pen of syllables spells his role,
>that voice, that fell as quiet as scattered seed,
>probed his anger, shaped his hatred into deed.
>
>This night, this bread, these years, this life, this breath,
>he’d give them all for purchase of a happy death.
>
>
>
> (ii)
>
> The Sun’s child.
>
>Still capped with cloud and smudges of late snow
>the mountain broods, the school road winds below,
>passes through swaying fields of ripening wheat,
>a hissing sweep, an ocean sparked with heat.
>
>Mists of pollen, censer on the wind, disperse,
>to mingle with the dust his sneakers raise.
>Marching through his mind the words rehearse
>the loyal oath that must be right that day.
>
>Behind his eyes, the beacons beck and blaze,
>banners unfurl and fold the morning’s haze,
>ribbons twist; the blare of strident brass brays
>shining star-bright down all the bugled days.
>
>The hills might buckle with their loud parades.
>O, say, can you see how tunes of glory fade.
>
>
>
>
> (iii)
>
> A point of view.
>
>You see your mirrored sun shimmer and shift
>the fish with bony pout notes his diurnal gift;
>your sun slides in slices on the pool,
>his glides through weeds and dismal cool.
>For where the medias meet lies turmoil,
>excited molecules rebound and boil
>baffled scintilla swirl in flaring dance;
>it’s a raffle, a turn of card, a chance.
>
>Photon on photon the choice resolved,
>one recoils while the other is dissolved,
>always some are accepted, some rejected;
>light enters; is refused; refracted or reflected.
>Dependant on its angle, light is skewed,
>each medium is succoured, life renewed
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