Hi grasshopper,
You've got your sonnets into a fine art!
This one sort of feels 19th Century, to me, perhaps because of the pace I
find myself reading it: slow and measured. I guess the phrasings of:
"mosaic-ed on a Monarch's wing"
and
"the toll extracted by his fatal whim,
his end, no longer feted or adored."
and the phrase "you pen" clinches it for me!
feel as if they could sit near Tennyson or Browning with ease. But the
mention of "sand" may date it even earlier (even tho sonnets wern't much
written in the 18th century they were popular in the 17th and 16th. The
mortal shocks phrase, tho, is Willie (no great) Shakespeare, too. But, to
me, the language feels 19th century!
And the language feels like "written not spoken language" too! It's not
poetry as memorable speech. This feels like it belongs on the page (which is
neat because that's where biographies appear as well!).
So, I'm guessing the the biographer was writing about someone who, when he
(the biographer) died, couldn't have a coin over each eye newer than with an
image of Queen Victoria! But, I know I don't always pick up things the same
as others do, so I may be reading it all differently.
So, come on, own up. Who's writing and who's being writing about?????
Bob
>From: grasshopper <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: New sub: The Biographer
>Date: Sun, 28 Sep 2003 10:49:59 +0100
>
>The Biographer
>
>How hard it is to write of death, when Death
>stands at your rounded shoulder, bending near
>as if to read the words. True, in the breadth
>of mortal shocks, a death is nothing rare
>
>yet you have lingered on his early life,
>his word-plays, wit, and fame : the fairy-tale.
>And how he sparkled, like refracted light
>mosaic-ed on a Monarch's wing - and just as frail.
>
>One lapse would brush him down to earth, and pin
>him flat. Now follow that descent, record
>the toll extracted by his fatal whim,
>his end, no longer feted or adored.
>
>You pen the final words: your subject's done;
>Death dries your page with sand, and whispers, Come.
>
> (grasshopper)
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