Sonnet on Shostakovich Violin Concerto No. 1

xix.

This passacaglia for you, my dear
Wandering and unspoken valentine,
Having brought to me so much comfort here,
And such forgiveness to this heart of mine.
That such sweet pain could come from such a thin
Wood, that four strings and single bow could tell
True - my life played upon a violin,
Dark melancholy and despair - myself,
You see, the real me. I cannot forget
That all is you. No fault of yours, no blame
To you is given. But play these notes, let
That be my rest. There is joy in this pain,
A lonely cadenza has its beauty,
And in sad reflection of you, its duty.

Sonnet for a Hard Road

xviii.

Driving up here tonight, where from the dark
Shadow of the road the valley lights spread
Beneath our feet, two moonlit shadows marked
Our place, as the world blinked silent and dead.
You came here, not me. I only followed,
And wondered where out there would you now wish
To be, if not with me. That Apollo
You seek, is he there? Is that his ghost which
You see hiding in the strange, twinkled gloom?
Tell me, I'm not afraid. It's your remove
That upsets me. It's your dreams which now loom
So distant, while I stand wordless, unused.
How we stare, in darkness, nothing to speak
And the lights so close, so out of our reach.

Sonnet for the Inappropriate

xii.

That would be the end of it then. No one
Embraces their misfortune, complacent
In their admission that what's done is done,
And but for the few odds and ends, vacant
And abandoned. Life's a river, and this
Deep, remorseless current asks only of
Us that we ever continue on its
Clumsy course, riding unsteady above
The rocky depths, and cede to it that we
Are absurd, and easily deluded.
I ask too much sometimes, and can now see
How strange to think that also included
You. How do I explain this man I've been,
Or unclose my eyes or undream this dream.

Sonnet on a Lyric by Lori McKenna

xvi.

There you stood looking for a smile, but just
What did you expect? Oh, of course, I see.
A reprobate wild with desperate lust,
Or perhaps a tail wagging at your feet.
How I tire of you, long since unamused,
My heart now longs only for her, and you care
Not, I know, as though damaged and abused
I am all the more helpless, unaware.
Please excuse me if by my sour taste
I've reduced your boiling steam of desire.
I have no stake in it. I've laid waste
To the one real love of my heart's true fire.
And you're bored now, some idle pleasures to seek,
And thought you'd come by and just borrow me.

Sonnet for Myself

xv.

So it was often said of me, his mind
Is broken. Look how peculiar he's
Become, as if there were ever a time
Or reference which showed my normalcy,
Setting right this strange recondite repose
In which I so dangerously linger.
To find myself now nakedly exposed
And wasted by this constant malinger
Earns me no credit, being private by
Nature, and not given to judge those who
Have caused no injury, except to break
Spurious hope, or bring disappointment to
An ambition not theirs, but mine to make.
Seek not cause in such senseless emotions,
As wayward as swells of drifting oceans.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

The Hanging Tree

(the fans)

Each day there was always the same old place.
After school up to the bend of the road,
Past the houses, where with cold beers in hand
They'd pass the smoke around and then wonder
"Who among us will climb the hanging tree?"
Each unafraid, waiting for the other.

And as the afternoon dimmed they remained,
With none disposed to climb the branches
To where the noose had been fastened and hung,
But rather in shadowy drift escaped,
And in a dizzy fantasy embraced
The youthful conceit of endless future.

By some potion, some herb, some little pill
Would they be favored from life's misfortunes.
If they could just dull their minds to realness
And pretend their world was not their parents,
For them there'd never be a hanging tree,
While each day they grew a little deader.


(the lover)

Shut behind her walls, unseen by all but
The mirror, she imagined alone all
That people do. Her life not at all what
She thought it would be. So regular, small
And lonely was she. And when the artist spoke
She pretended him as a kindred soul,
Who with his practiced lies could gently coax
her trust, even as her beliefs he stole.
"Why not" she said, like a small and spoiled child,
And conceited and vain he used this for
his confirmation, that all he reviled
Would but for her sake respect him the more.
And believing herself now to be free
She began her climb up the hanging tree



(the artist)

He caught a wave once
Thrust upwards towards the sun like
Driftwood
And mistook himself for the wind
Or a Phoenix risen from the ashpile
Of common experience.

And men in suits selling tickets
Worshiped him
And men selling magazines
Acclaimed him
And he believed the money and the praise
To be manifestly true,
And himself among the chosen few.

Then he called himself an Artist.
"The people love me, I am special", he supposed
"I have been given a great gift."
When he yearned, they cheered.
When he cursed, they cheered.
As he fouled and poisoned the earth,
The people thought themselves heard
Through the noise and the chaos,
Compelled by the machine of commerce which they
Embraced and dreaded,
And for which they knew nothing else.

But as soon as it came
The Wave was broken,
And the people found new distractions, and
The Artist was plagued of them.
"They no longer understand my art", he swore
And feigning indifference, he persisted.
Convinced that the money and fame would come again
And all the things spoken still true.

But as no one came
He sought new direction,
And the people now found him pretentious,
And though he thought great things
The people knew better than he
The insult of being pandered to
And the conceit of selfishness and fame.

So now the Artist, wounded and dangerous,
Found comfort in himself and satisfaction in
The destruction of others.
For all his invective and self-loathing,
He could not hide from the knowledge
That despite all of his creativity and Art
He had become obvious and dull,

And caught, like a scared cat,
Way up high in the hanging tree.

Tags: poetry, blank verse, sonnet, free verse

Sonnet and First Meditation on Saariaho's Graal Theatre

xiv.

And who was I before the womb? By what
Formless spirit did I explore the dark
Boundaries and blue eternal depths, caught
Nameless, unnameable, silent, unmarked,
My first labored thoughts and cries unheard in
The pre-genesis of vacuum and space.
Could I have been, or had being, within
Such unformed dimension of time and place?
By what mechanism was I undreamed
Without first the imagination or
Presence by which intelligence could scheme
Or contrive such worlds as minds could explore.
Why this purposeless void of light and sound
And mysterious blackness all around.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

Sonnet to a Childhood Friend

xiii.

I'm glad we did this tonight. At first
I wasn't sure. To tell you the truth, I
don't mix much these days, being at my worst
most times, with little to say or reply.
But I'm glad to hear your mother's well. Yes
I'm sorry about your divorce. So nice you
Found someone new. And how lucky and blessed
To have such a lovely daughter. You two
look so pretty. Remember those Sundays
When we would bounce in the back of the car.
When we'd hit the bump and then fly way
Up and hit our heads. So long and so far
Ago. I don't think on that anymore.
I'd forgot when I was happy before.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

A Sonnet to Futility

xii.

I'm not born to greatness. That molecule
Of genius wasn't given to me. I
am neither as well-bred nor as well-schooled
As my serious nature would imply.
I cannot heal the world nor find the truth
in a grain of sand. Time is mystery,
Ever so bright and undarkened in youth,
That in me grows cold and black as the sea.
I don't know life's lessons. Mistakes are still
Made, frivolous imperfections still track
All endeavor, and each day tests my will
To continue though life's splendor they lack.
Yet of all my failings, the one most true?
Despite all else, I yet believe in you.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

A Sonnet to the Wind

"Geez, not another sonnet. Give it up already, dude. "

"Hey, I like writing sonnets. Like someone once said, 'sonnets are cool balm to soothe troubled souls.' Ok, maybe nobody said that, but this blog is my sandbox, not yours, and I'll write as many sonnets as I damn well please. Besides, it helps take the load off my mind."



xi.

How far from me to you? It's everything
I think about you, everything you
Don't know about me, misunderstood,
Untrue, all the stranded moments I lose
to habit and occupation. If not
given then I take nothing unoffered,
But if offered and not taken, if hot
Passion dies, and hard I allow softer
Feelings to vanish, then what is gained?
Pretense? True emotion would be sweeter,
And warm affection given unrestrained
Better than all posture and theater.
I ask what is the path, where is the way,
What madness to live this day after day.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

Sonnet for a Stranger

x.

It's all a lie. All of it. Life is not
The blows we suffer, nor getting knocked down
And then standing. What choice have we? To squat
Down in the gutter? Do we sink and drown
Or die from despair? With brave lies we fill
Ourselves - that we are heroes for drawing
Another breath though we are treated ill,
And harbor vain conceits, like rats gnawing
At our egos, of warriors defeated
In battle, only to return ever
Stronger for the wound. Be you not decieved
My friend, for the hardest blows are never
Those we suffer ourselves, but those recieved
By ones we love. This is the pain life brings,
What becomes of you is the hardest of things.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

A Sonnet of Farewell

ix.

Where the hawk may go is no concern to
Me. Hanging lazily on the current
And hunting fresh prey. Would you have me do
no less, as if it were or it weren't
Within the poor power of failing aim
To strike at the heart and be so stricken.
There's no loss in this, nor to any gain
Can there be. Each day hardens and thickens
And all sense becomes idle and dull. We
Are a counterpoint, you and I. Each one
To follow its own course, in unity,
But separate, the fire of two hot suns.
Good hunting, I say, be your troubles few.
With regret I go, but to myself am true.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

A Sonnet for the Coming Storm

viii.

Someone hurt her, I think. It doesn't show,
But it shows, especially when it rains,
And sitting by the light of the window
She feels the drops run down her windowpane.
That was her second marriage she told me
Though I didn't ask. That was all she said.
And she smiles as though she means it, mostly,
I smile back, with no words spoken. Instead
I could be an old sweater, to her,
Anyone warm and obliging would do.
Flattered, I suppose, it's me she'd prefer
Never certain if it really is true.
What a pathetic, meager need is this
That for its own sake its reasons persist.

Tags: sonnet, poetry

A Sonnet of Remembrance

vii.

She came from Michigan, East Lansing.
Her father was a professor out there.
I was young and she was young and fancy-
free were we. She loved the wind in her hair,
Deep chestnut, and cut short all around,
Framing dark pools and delicate brown eyes,
Which like hot fires, ever gazing I found
So mysterious, sensous and wise.
'Twas like this, you see, when first came to me
The darkness which even now I'm stricken.
To her whom I'd never wish misery
Her sweet joy it did strangle and sicken.
And so from here to a big college town
she was gone, and in the darkness I drowned.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

A Sonnet a Day, ...

vi.

For not one waking moment did I see
The blowing wind gasp in desperation,
Nor the sun, bleak, long-shadowed and empty
Returning lifeless to its creation.
Parsimonious and dull was the light
On that day, which by its nature did slow
And reduce all joy to silver of night
Absorbing hope to the darkeness below.
How scant a scene, oh most souless of days!
Which but for a touch could scarce break a smile.
Which found in my heart dispirit, dismay
And no purpose but this mile after mile.
Then when living could no longer abide,
Stopped me here on the day that I died.

Another (Depressing) Sonnet for the New Year

v.

What beauty e'er could grow from such a weed
By such a mean and impoverished start
As would poison kindness, and with its seed
Draw vile succor from her peaceful heart.
What sprouts from this love, this meager garden?
Dandelion, crabgrass, brown slimy worm?
Sunbaked earth growing cracked as it hardens
Love barren, base as the lowest of germs.
I have tilled this ground and sowed in this field
And longingly gazed its infertile soil
And reaped from it such an unfruitful yield
As to grow lonely and spent of the toil.
Where she goes, now, is not mine to follow
My roots have grown deep and heart grown hollow.

A New Sonnet for the Holidays

iv.

And you will marry someday, I suppose,
To a good rich soil. From the warming sun
Of pure fortune will your new garden grow
Unburdened, and not by hard want undone.
And on Christmas morning children will squeal
And sparkle like glitter and blinking lights.
The world will complete you, as warmly you feel
Arms that caress you through blackness of night.
In the inevitable balance of
Mother and child, will you become newly
Emerged, and in this most perfect of love
Grow restless, forever to love's duty.
And you will marry someday, unspoken,
To the thousands of hearts you have broken.

A Sonnet for the Holidays

iii.

I have bought my peace, my spirit the coin
To which dead purpose and blank effort spent
Have achieved no other than but to rejoin
Ageless meander and my days misspent.
I remember you, yet am forgotten
As a passing car or faceless stranger,
And through passion born but misbegotten
I cannot forget nor face the danger,
Nor by forgetfulness lose the vision
Of the beauty once seen and lost to desire
And cautionsness. Earning cold derision
That extinguishes all that hope had inspired,
Bleed me now and take from me that I am.
What's passion but the measure of the man.

Tags: poetry, sonnet

Everybody Loves a Sonnet

ii.

How perfect the stain and by what strange means
False circumstance did I selfish conspire.
By all manner of ruse and happenings
As to defeat my most heartfelt desire.
Answer me thus and by action explain
What by words I'm unable to discern,
That for love my heart did mocking disdain
As to extinguish the flame that it burned.
We're a curious breed this rabble of men
That we are smitten yet still cannot see,
A time once come will not yet come again
And that all love comes but from constancy.
A stranger to love will know only this
That for a fool there awaits Tosca's kiss

Tags: poetry, sonnet

A Winter Sonnet

i.

That you are gone. And by what means am I
Diminished. A tongue by silence betrayed
And treason, by its own muteness did lie
That reason should not its heart obey.
Had I believed you perfect then perhaps
By earnestness of thought make excuses
But through false emotions let judgement lapse
To suffer indifferent abuses
Now a lingering sweetness of your air
Betrays in me unfathomable void
Black darkness consumes all hunger and care
And in consciousness is reason destroyed
Though dreams do not come and no light is shown
To dream of you is to dream all alone

Tags: poetry, sonnet