Thanks Mike for the read. Believe me it is under heavy revision. it just
seemed a good time to give it a run out. Regards Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Mike Horwood" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Wednesday, February 19, 2003 1:02 PM
Subject: Re: New sub: A Wreath of Sonnets
Hello Arthur,
Iīve been sitting on this one/three for a few days trying to
make up my mind what I think of it. Thereīs certainly a lot thatīs very
skillfully done here and thereīs nothing that I would want to say about the
language except `mediasī which I believe doesnīt need an s. As for content,
The first section is rather ornate and rich in its language. Obviously, its
supposed to be because of its subject, thatīs clear. I canīt decide how well
it works, but this I am clear about - I like the second half, starting from
line 8, best. Section two works well, I think. Again, its very skillfully
done. Section 3 was my least favourite. I understand that itīs about the way
light passes through water or gets reflected and I feel that this is a
rather complex subject to handle in a few lines. As a result, I feel the
language gets very dense and turgid here and I feel that detracts from the
effect.
Iīm afraid this isnīt very coherent or much help, but itīs the best I can
manage.
Best wishes, Mike
--- Alkuperäinen viesti ---
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
|
