SteveH
05-23-2007, 05:30 AM
Pendragon was very complimentary about the sonnets I put on my other thread, so here's a few more.
A reply to John Donne's 'Holy Sonnet 10'*
It seems to me like whistling in the dark
To keep your spirits up, this desperate logic
Trying to prove that death is less than tragic,
That death is nothing: John, it doesn't work.
In the round earth's imagined corners lurk
The shades of those we've lost; and each sad reject
From life and time - each object with no subject -
Would say as much: except the dead don't talk.
So give it up: admit you're scared as hell.
Whatever bliss lies on the other side,
Death's one grim oment will not be denied.
It tolls for you and me, this passing-bell:
And if we were not terrified of death,
What need of hope and love? What need of faith?
Sonnetette
A short
And sweet
And neat
New thought
In fourt-
Een feet
Complete
Is caught.
Why choose
Long lines?
The muse
Repines.
Don't pad -
It's bad.
Unrhymed Sonnet
My love - will you permit me to be blunt?
Desire for you has made me feel quite sick.
I long to shower kisses on your ear,
While you reciprocate upon my face.
This passion has all but destroyed my wits -
I'm like a stammering clown in some low farce
Until I gaze, enraptured, on your eyes,
Or stroke and kiss your gently rounded shoulder.
The finest silk is but a coarse-spun rag
Beside your perfect skin - and I would thank
All gods that are if I could have a kiss
Instead, my love, of just a lonely thought.
Tease me no longer - grant that I may look -
May touch, hold, kiss - and then, perhaps, we'll marry.
Michelangelo's 'Pieta' (http://dc-mrg.english.ucsb.edu/WarnerTeach/E192/Images/Michelangelo.pieta.all.jpg)
One day I'll visit it, but until then
Photos will have to do, although no doubt
They can't convey its sombre beauty. When
I do at last see the dead Christ laid out
On Mary's lap, I think that it won't be
The artist's craftsmanship that I'll admire;
The fine detail, the gorgeous drapery,
The perfectly observed musculature:
In fact, I might well find the mannered pose -
So typically Renaissance - irritating;
And though the sweet, sad face of Mary shows
A resignation that rebukes our hating,
I'm moved by what some might think merely odd:
Mary's left hand, palm up, giving her son to God.
To a friend - March 19th, 2003
I'm sitting here above the River Ver;
The weather's fine and still - there's not a sound
Except the gentle cooing of a dove*
In a small wood - not enough breeze to stir
More than the lightest leaf - and all around
The rolling southern landscape - and, above,
A cloudless sky seems stretched and taut to where
It meets the hazy hills - and trees abound,
Lifting their leafless arms - and I would love
To have you here beside me, and to spend
This perfect day with you - for solitude
Is best appreciated with a friend
Who knows your heart and who can share the mood.
One day, perhaps, we'll both hear doves within a wood.
*It was a pigeon actually, but "dove" sounds more poetic!
A reply to John Donne's 'Holy Sonnet 10'*
It seems to me like whistling in the dark
To keep your spirits up, this desperate logic
Trying to prove that death is less than tragic,
That death is nothing: John, it doesn't work.
In the round earth's imagined corners lurk
The shades of those we've lost; and each sad reject
From life and time - each object with no subject -
Would say as much: except the dead don't talk.
So give it up: admit you're scared as hell.
Whatever bliss lies on the other side,
Death's one grim oment will not be denied.
It tolls for you and me, this passing-bell:
And if we were not terrified of death,
What need of hope and love? What need of faith?
Sonnetette
A short
And sweet
And neat
New thought
In fourt-
Een feet
Complete
Is caught.
Why choose
Long lines?
The muse
Repines.
Don't pad -
It's bad.
Unrhymed Sonnet
My love - will you permit me to be blunt?
Desire for you has made me feel quite sick.
I long to shower kisses on your ear,
While you reciprocate upon my face.
This passion has all but destroyed my wits -
I'm like a stammering clown in some low farce
Until I gaze, enraptured, on your eyes,
Or stroke and kiss your gently rounded shoulder.
The finest silk is but a coarse-spun rag
Beside your perfect skin - and I would thank
All gods that are if I could have a kiss
Instead, my love, of just a lonely thought.
Tease me no longer - grant that I may look -
May touch, hold, kiss - and then, perhaps, we'll marry.
Michelangelo's 'Pieta' (http://dc-mrg.english.ucsb.edu/WarnerTeach/E192/Images/Michelangelo.pieta.all.jpg)
One day I'll visit it, but until then
Photos will have to do, although no doubt
They can't convey its sombre beauty. When
I do at last see the dead Christ laid out
On Mary's lap, I think that it won't be
The artist's craftsmanship that I'll admire;
The fine detail, the gorgeous drapery,
The perfectly observed musculature:
In fact, I might well find the mannered pose -
So typically Renaissance - irritating;
And though the sweet, sad face of Mary shows
A resignation that rebukes our hating,
I'm moved by what some might think merely odd:
Mary's left hand, palm up, giving her son to God.
To a friend - March 19th, 2003
I'm sitting here above the River Ver;
The weather's fine and still - there's not a sound
Except the gentle cooing of a dove*
In a small wood - not enough breeze to stir
More than the lightest leaf - and all around
The rolling southern landscape - and, above,
A cloudless sky seems stretched and taut to where
It meets the hazy hills - and trees abound,
Lifting their leafless arms - and I would love
To have you here beside me, and to spend
This perfect day with you - for solitude
Is best appreciated with a friend
Who knows your heart and who can share the mood.
One day, perhaps, we'll both hear doves within a wood.
*It was a pigeon actually, but "dove" sounds more poetic!