Thank you for reading Rosalind. I am not taking sides. I am exploring the
nature of the clash.
The moon is a symbol in Islam, a part of their flag, the measure of their
calendar. I did not choose it for them.I do not think that evil walks at
night, it is with us day and night. The Sun was chosen as a contrast. Also
the golden bounteous land contrasts with the poverty elsewhere. It is of
course a point of view and that is exactly what the last sonnet is
emphasising, whatever it is the same sun, the same source of 'light'. Thanks
for reading and commenting.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Rosalind Dooley" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Sunday, February 16, 2003 3:22 PM
Subject: Re: New sub: A Wreath of Sonnets


Arthur,
Loved the trilogy and wondered why you choose the the 'eastern' child for a
moon child.
Was it to reflect that evil walks at night
and the Sun Child...being a western child...and the imagery more
'wholesome'.
plus the summing up of
your sun slides in slices on the pool,
his glides through weeds and dismal cool.
Though I understand the philosphy at the end....just the
way the dice rolls....
BUT beautiful as it may be in words of profound thought
what would it read if the Sun Child was from the eastern
and wholesome and the western child from the moon?
Would the cool and warmth still remain the same.....depends on
whose eyes you are looking through.
Good read.
Rosalind.

----- Original Message -----
From: "arthur seeley" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Sunday, February 16, 2003 6:28 PM
Subject: New sub: A Wreath of Sonnets


  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