Acrostic

Another sonnet not for the sequence.

Fly, fly my crazy dreams of love, into the deepest night
Or else begone to lovers’ hell with the approaching day
Lest I somehow confuse my passions’ dream with hostile day;
Lest I confuse my busy day with dreamy passion’d night.
Oh, let my life be satisfied with sleep-benumbing night
With all that I could ever need to occupy each day.
That I might some way find a distant pleasure in my day
However much I may desire a thrilling, sleepless night.
Each time I dream of my love’s skillful hands and ardour’s night
Dew-eyed, I turn to face my legal lord in light of day
Rememb’ring just how long he has avoided me by night,
Each polished courtesan, in turn, commands his arm by day.
Although my sweet-tongued lover may not come to me by night,
My love’s soft words remind me how beloved I am by day.

Another sestina -- this one for the novel

This sestina was a challenge from a friend of mine; to use "think", plus the five senses. I had hoped to turn this into a double sestina, but couldn't think of anything more to say. Maybe the next one ...

Helos:
I have to say, I don’t know what to think.
I know her only by the things I see.
There are, of course, the rumours that I hear
That are certainly bound, my heart, to touch.
I cannot forget her delicate scent
And yearn to know how sweet her full lips taste.

Thoe:
I like to think I’m known for having taste.
Yet, untroubled by what the Courtiers think
I have eschewed the stronger vials of scent.
What he thinks of that; I will wait and see.
I cannot forget his hands’ gentle touch
When dancing to music I still can hear.

Helos:
What is this silent music that I hear
Inside my head? It’s giving me a taste
For gracious dances; for when I could touch
And surrender my mind, so I would think
No more. Yet, when I close my eyes, I see
Her laughing face and inhale her slight scent.

Thoe:
I remember well his crisp, earthy scent.
Every rich baritone voice that I hear
Makes me want to turn my head to see
If it is he. Oh, for a single taste
Of those sweet lips, but what would people think
If they knew how I yearned for his touch?

Helos:
She’s right there! Shall I put it to the touch?
Or will she think I’m flying from the scent?
I find I care about what she will think.
I wonder what sort of tales she might hear
Among women of elegance and taste?
I guess I shall just have to wait and see.

Thoe:
Sometimes I can’t believe what my eyes see.
He’s so handsome that it’s hard not to touch.
I keep on wondering how he would taste
And if it’s akin to his stirring scent.
If he would but state his case, I would hear.
My brains are scrambled and it’s hard to think.

Helos:
I think I am partial to what I see
And what I hear. How I hunger to touch;
Breathe her understated scent; know her taste.

Sonnet 22

Come, bind me to you with your pensive eyes;
Those eyes that promise pleasure through the nights,
Ever to raise me up on passion’s tides.
Mind how you lead to ever greater heights.
Now, bind me to you with your luscious lips.
Words fail you not, but do you honour sir;
In that you warm me with your clever quips
And whispered words that ever prove a lure.
And bind me to you, for your gifted hands
Are captivating me with tempting touch.
My heart has followed you to many lands;
Heart-stopping when your fingers prove too much.
Then bind me -- eyes, lips, hands -- without a sound
For I am here to serve you, I'll be bound.

Sonnet 21

I hear your voice in public, and your measured words
Remind me that we must, the busy world, deceive.
I know your voice in private, when your whispered words
Reveal to me the wicked passion I’ll receive.
I feel your hands in public, and your gentle touch
Is reassuring me that I am not alone.
I know your hands in private, where your heated touch
Excites responses unlike any I have known.
I feel your lips in public, and your tender kiss
Whispers against my cheek; a manner that’s so chaste.
I know your lips in private; how your passioned kiss
Can stir my very essence with our salty taste.
Come, share your love with me, my only heart’s desire.
Your voice, your hands, your lips, have all set my blood afire.

Sonnet 20

How can the world conceive itself complete
While it stays unaware that we are one?
Your eyes speak volumes when our gazes meet.
‘Tis meet that we have shared our tale with none.
We feign disinterest that’s nearly cold;
A lie that, on the surface, I accept.
Your touch expresses passion well controlled
Within a shell of silence, sternly kept.
The sweetness that you offer me has fed
Such dreams as are unfit for prudent ears.
Your lips say nought, and nothing need be said
Though we’ve not been together many years.
In silence will I plead for my delight:
My friend by day; my greatest love by night.

Sonnet 19

My life was dark; ice filled my veins and soul.
I’d never even known the warmth of praise.
My heart was frozen hard; that took its toll
As I had been untouched by Helos’ rays.
But then his path did change; he followed mine.
I felt his touch and then I sensed a thaw.
To me, the world seemed strangely new-defined
By what I smelled and tasted, heard and saw.
His rays caressed my skin, which warmer grew.
The warmth became a fire which burned within
Yet I’d not quench it -- though it burn me through --
For playing with fire could not be a sin.
Though I may burn, vanish without a trace,
Aflame, I float when warmed by his embrace.

Sonnet 18 - an echo sonnet

Look on my ceaseless efforts, haughty one,
(Haughty one,)
And see how you would wound me with your vain
( You're vain!)
Negligence; tell me, when will you be done,
( Be done)
Glorious love, treating me with disdain?
( With disdain.)
Hear my fervent pleas, my feckless one.
( Feckless one,)
Only give me a moment to explain:
( Explain)
Look on my face and tell me why you shun
( Why you shun)
My love. I'll not rest until my refrain
( My refrain.)
Engages you. I'll stay in Albion
( In Albion)
'Til the end of time and I would remain
( I would remain)
Only yours, sweet Charity. If I won,
( If I won)
Worthy soul, I would be with you again.
( You again.)
Eagerly I will wait 'til unison.
( 'Til unison,)
Refuse me; you will find I'm all undone.
( I'm all undone!)

Betrayal

And away from the sonnet sequence again! This poem (written a year ago) was a challenge from a friend of mine. She provided the end-words, and I had to fill in the rest.

I only delve into my thoughts by night
For fear that my face reveals them by day.
I trust you to warn me, my dearest friend,
For I would hide my thoughts from my enemy.
I would not wish to hurt those whom I love;
I would not wish to cause pain to my lord.

I confess I am uncertain of my lord.
He rarely comes to me to pass the night.
It seems he has no desire for my love.
He is courteous but distant by day
Sometimes I wonder who is my enemy;
Sometimes I wonder who I can call friend.

I could never doubt that you are my friend;
You help me see the good things in my lord,
You helped me identify my enemy.
It is only when I am alone by night
That I doubt all I have learned by day;
That I doubt all I thought I knew of love

As a child, I dreamed I would marry for love.
Did you not do the same, dear friend?
But now I have small pleasure in my day.
No matter what dishes I prepare for my lord,
He refuses to eat them, night after night,
Taking only food made by my enemy.

For we are taught: unto your enemy
You must offer your forgiving love.
I struggle with this as I pray at night,
For whom can I love but my one true friend;
For whom can I love but my legal lord.
Gladly I take up duties through the day.

I embroider in the solar by day
And do my best to dodge my enemy,
Who is no more than a spy for my lord
And also his mistress. I see your love
Of food is thickening your waist, my friend.
Are you sure that's where my lord spends his night?

Each day follows another lonely night.
Pray take the enemy away, my friend,
So I will not see my lord with his love.

Sonnet 17

If you, my dear, were guardian of the sea that roars,
Subjecting my poor island to your pounding waves,
This choice I could have: yielding to your flood that pours
O’er me, like the deluge, or to retain my ways.
Immovable though I may seem to you, I fear
Becoming so immersed it makes my life seem dim.
O take not my unwav’ring life from me, my dear.
Hold me, and do not drown me, as I learn to swim.
Above all else, I fear that I would cease to be;
Retreating from the battering force of your great tide;
When, with a quaking movement, feel you smother me.
Attempts to stand my ground all stem from hollow pride.
Of all these petty fears I have that could come true:
Far worse to learn you love me not, as I love you.

Sonnet 15

Hmm. I'm not thrilled with line two, but will leave it for now ... until my inner editor surfaces one day (I have a feeling that it's not far off) and I'll whip through all the problems in the verses and get them closer to what I want.

I gaze at you from ocean’s chilly depths
And see you doing stretches by the shore.
I noticed that you seem to shift your steps
To push yourself to reach a wee bit more.
I gaze at you from cloudy threatening skies
And watch you as you take your daily run,
And when you lift a weight for exercise;
To train yourself for heavy lance and gun.
I gaze at you from dullest hillside stones
As you ride by upon your war-trained mount;
But you’re preparing for the foes well known
Who tilt to mark the day of Royal count.
From ashes I have told you what I see.
Pray tell me sir, what do you see in me?

Sonnet 14

A paradise for fools? What thing is this
That mocks the rules that I was always taught?
While foolish acts mayhap could win a kiss;
Such acts, for heaven’s reward, avail me nought.
If what I’m told of Paradise is true,
‘Tis filled with fools of a most virtuous type
And, while I hope I’m not as bad as you,
I trust I bear not that angelic stripe.
If what I’m told of foolishness is fair,
It is a pastime that’s reserved for wits
And, though I am no brain, I would not dare
To claim that I’ve not scored my share of hits.
And, thus, it is a foolish yarn I spool
Within this paradise reserved for fools.

Sonnet 13

Enough of this modern stuff -- back to 1582 and the sequence.

You carried me away to Ludgate Hill,
For Lyly’s play, put on by Oxford’s men.
‘Twas “Sapho”, and his voice was rather shrill;
Small wonder Phao left her quickly, then.
You bought me books of verse with hard-earned coin
And claimed, each time, you thought of me throughout:
While all the sundry flowers of Gascoigne
Were eaten by the sheep of Colin Cloute.
You poured a ruby wine into my cup
And drank to friendship that we had begun;
We took our seats, relaxing as we supped.
‘Twas hours before our feast was truly done.
What can I give, that you might think was clever?
Accept my words, and you shall last forever.

modern sonnet 4

The sweetness of your lips cannot diffuse
The creeping sense of boredom you instil
Within my mind. With scads of time to fill,
I gaze at everyone you buy and use,
But spend my hours alone. I take a pill
And game against myself -- I always lose --
And dream of going on a river cruise.
I pour a drink and wonder 'Could I kill?'
You seem so damn' mundane, and I refuse
To fit your mould again. My life stands still
When I'm with you. But now I have a will
To live: I've grossly overpaid my dues.
So don't you bother writing up a bill,
'Cause I'll short change you, winking at the till.

modern sonnet 3

The Migraine

Hot pokers sear my mind, and in my brain
The lights -- electric blue and blinding white --
Impede my view. A fireball in flight
Appears on the periphery, then wanes.
The agony has dimmed, to my delight.
But now, in cotton wool, I feel the strain
Of looking through a telescope in vain
Because it's turned around -- a funny sight.
Well, finally the throbs begin to wane
As medication acts and puts to flight
Incessant thoughts about my head; I'm quite
Relieved that I'm no longer in such pain.
But now, compulsive chatter's at its height.
I murmur thoughts while rushing through the night.

modern sonnet 2

This is purely self-indulgent. Of course, most of my poetry is.

I walk the silent streets alone at night
And stand bereft on corner islands lit
By graceless rays. I'm thinking that I might
Attempt to find some quiet place to sit.
In coffee-houses, dark and filled with smoke,
I struggle with ideas that mean nought.
I’ve heard the coffee-poets can't revoke
Their own poetic licences when caught.
In institutions filled with weary brains
I wrestle with the concepts that are bound
To cause my death. At times I feel such pain.
I wonder if my body would be found.
Condemned to highs and lows, this is my plight:
To walk the silent streets alone at night.

modern sonnet 1

I've been trying to meld modern sensibilities with the structure of the sonnet, with indifferent results. Here's one of them.

I love the dead - the dead so cold.
Oblivious to hurt and pain
The pageantry of grief unfolds
To people melting in the rain.
With sky that's grey (so like their skin)
Their hailstone teeth soon bite the dust
And tears that strongly smell of gin
Have turned their fingernails to rust.
The legs that could not bear their weight,
While backs that on the beaches bask,
Are shipping bodies home by freight
For faces hidden by a mask.
But arms dismembered from the soul
Are reaching, still, towards their goal.

Sonnet 12

By day, throughout the chores that must be done
I long for night to bring me swift disguise
That I may prove an equal for the sun
In wat’ry robes, dressed worthy of the prize.
By night I cannot sleep, but agonize.
I long for day and work’s oblivion
Where glimpses of the sun may tantalize,
For glimpses of him are not simply won.
By day or night, I fear I am undone
Though I must love while in a servant’s guise
The man whom all the Court has idealized.
By night or day, I whisper this to none
“It matters not if I have been unwise
For I have seen the fire in midnight eyes.”

Sonnet 11

Is this true love, of which the minstrels sing,
That makes me still long to embrace you so?
Or is it lust that makes my heart take wing
And yearn to follow you where’er you go?
It is not love; I really must insist,
No matter what misguided friends have said
And, yet, it is so strong I must persist.
I should forswear my heart and use my head.
It is not lust, for that slights Cupid’s dart
Which has been shot, and I will not pretend
That he has missed me, or that I will mend.
I would forsake my head and know my heart.
I swear it is not love, nor vulgar lust.
Perhaps ‘tis the unknown that haunts me thus.

Sonnet 10

You rob me of my mind. My sense is gone.

But, with my common sense, has flown my pride.
My least delightful armour I shall don
And give you reason to avoid my side.
It fits into your plot: for she will cry,
E’en though she does not know we shared a kiss.
I shall not tell. I would not be so sly,
Although I think you capable of this.
If all the world were stricken by a plague
Affecting only men, and you remained,
You would not be my choice. I would not beg,
As she has done, with nothing ever gained.
You win the ladies’ hearts with awful ease.
You’ll have to work, if I’m the one to please.

Sonnet 9

The kiss we shared had caused my heart to skip.
I trembled in your arms. My spirit soared.
Your mouth was so much nectar to my lips,
As soon as it was past, I wanted more.
Yet, that same kiss was nothing dear to you.
You seemed quite unaffected by my gift.
Your breathing was the same when we were through,
Which gave me news that caused my heart to shift.
For, as we ambled back into the hall,
You grew more distant still, with every glance.
And now you say you have a love withal,
Although we shared a rather pleasant dance.
And so, I find I need to ask you this:
Why said you not a word before our kiss?

Sonnet 8

Enough of saints -- back to the story line for the sonnet sequence!

Beneath a place that’s held in high regard
You touched my arm and knew I would agree.
Sans words, sans any overt sign from me,
You understood I had let down my guard.
We slipped off to the side, unnoted still,
While others congregated in the hall.
You knew, too well, you had me in your thrall
And kissed me well, with your amazing skill.
‘Twas fate that we had come together thus
To share our kiss upon this magic night
For I had yearned for you upon first sight.
Yet 'twas not love, but only greedy lust.
Perhaps I am unwise in this, my choice,
But you have given me such wondrous joys.

St. Anne and Sonnet 84

Today is St. Anne's feast day. She was the mother of Mary and is usually depicted teaching her daughter to read. So it will come as no surprise that she's the patron of literacy, nor would it surprise anyone who knows me that I view her as my own personal star to follow. (This is why nephews and friends' children usually get books as gifts from me.)

The following poem (still in draft form) is not a sonnet in the modern sense. However, in Elizabethan Enland, the term 'sonnet' was often used for any short poem ... being derived from 'sonare' which, I've been told, means 'little song'.

Sonnet 84

My pen did not reveal my treasured thought,
Unguided by my hand across the page
Which stubbornly stayed blank, as if to gauge
Just how my jumbled mind could not be caught.
My blackest ink had dried upon my nib
While I tried sorting thoughts to get them down
And, yet, it was not black but muddy brown
Reflecting how my thoughts were less than glib.
And then today I found, to my chagrin,
I’d doodled in the margins of a book
Betraying the direction my thoughts took.
How can I cleanse this page of ink borne sin?
A fountain of ideas sprang to mind:
A knife can scrape the page, but leave a mess;
And paint is less offensive is my guess;
But ink can hide the marks I left behind.
Or, better yet, I could just leave the marks alone;
Reminding me of that for which I must atone.

(written May 13, 2007; inspired by the minutes of the Ottawa Fountain Pen Society)

St. Christina the Astonishing

Today is the feast of St. Christina the Astonishing.

I first learned about her when browsing Butler's Lives of the Saints. After reading about her life and feats, my friends and I decided that she should be considered the patron saint of performance artists. Instead, we learned that she is the patron of insanity, mental disorders, mental health caregivers, and psychiatrists.

More information about St. Christina can be found here:
http://www.catholic-forum.com/saints/saintc80.htm
or here:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Saint_Christina_the_Astonishing

While the following isn't a sonnet, it was written for this amazing woman.

Salve Sancta O Christina
Femina mirabilis
In caelis sic in Tartara
Salutatrix mortuis
Qui sic avis advolata
Ab vapore hominis.

Amica elementorum
Sub tympano natata,
Petra integra simul solum
Igni damni intacta
Crate orans sic litorum
Et a Deo beata.

Populi doctique orbis
Concilio valida
Venerandum ad te ducti
Sic nos digni incenda
Ora Christina pro nobis
Sancta beatissima.

(written September 2003)

Sonnet 7

Two hundred times I looked upon your face,
One eighth of which were you aware of me.
Two hundred times I watched you cross a place;
Not e’en an eighth of those did you see me.
But we were thrown together, drawn by chance;
And, during four short hours, obliged our host.
Eight times we took our part in formal dance
While I urged Cupid on to do his most.
But all has changed; my world has turned around
By bringing us securely face to face.
My fascination with you now is crowned
By seeing how you dance with supple grace.
It took so long and, yet, I will not moan.
My numbers tell a story of their own.

Sonnet 6

What must I do to bring you to my side?
For women's friendship you do not eschew.
You're friends with everyone, but woe betide
The one who finds herself in love with you.
What is it that will bring you? I'm aware
That views of those around you have no hold.
It sometimes even seems to me you dare
To choose your latest love to break the mold.
I've gazed into your depths of midnight blue
And wished I'd lived another time and place:
A place where your sweet lips were never viewed;
A time when I would not have seen your face.
I love you, yet I hate you. In my eyes
You truly are a god in mortal guise.

Sonnet 5

The retinue proceeded into Court
With our dear monarch, whom the Lord had blessed.
Among the men who offered their support,
A single man stood out above the rest.
He did not tower o’er the other men,
And yet I found my eyes were drawn to him.
The way he walked with confidence, and then
The way he stood displayed his well formed limbs.
His hair and beard were black; no sign of grey.
His melancholic humour clear to all.
His eyes were dark, but tinged with sapphire rays.
His smile could vie with any siren’s call.
’Twas Helos, and I did not know it then,
But he would help me learn to love again.

Sonnet 4

Do you believe, sir, in love at first sight?
‘Til now, I must confess that I did not.
I did not think that love could wield such might,
Such power on me, that I’d be fairly caught.
Do you return my love? Are you caught, too,
By Cupid’s darts as you return my glance?
Or are you wond’ring to yourself: Just who
Would gaze at you with basest impudence?
But is it love? Or is it merely lust
For you who have me caught within your spell?
In truth, how can I claim to love you thus
When I am merely yearning for a shell?
Do I believe? I’m really not too sure.
But this I know: my thoughts are most impure.

Sonnet 3

My heart was pounding, much against my will.
The blood was thudding hard inside my ears.
Upon my brow a subtle glow appeared.
Perhaps an ague was what made me ill.
‘Twas difficult to walk with quaking knees
And difficult to grasp with trembling hands.
My limbs would not obey my mind’s commands.
Perhaps a palsy had o’ertaken me.
My breath was shortened, coming out in gasps.
My palms were damp, no matter what I tried.
My stomach held a hundred buzzing flies.
This problem is a thing that I have grasped:
My illness is not serious, I’m sure;
‘Tis lovesick that I am, without a cure.

Sonnet 2

Obey my feeble will for me, my treach’rous wayward eyes;
Harry not the stranger, this god-like man, around the room.
My glances must not follow aft, his likeness to consume.
Yet, could he be aware that I consider him a prize?
Obey my waning will for me, my trait’rous shaking voice;
Hasten through the greeting, lest he hear the quiver in it.
My words seem trite. The whole event is over in a minute.
Yet, should I make it clear to him that he would be my choice?
Obey my dwindling will for once, my faintly trembling hand;
Handle the touching fingers with civility and grace.
My grasp reveals desire -- I pray, not shown upon my face.
Yet, can I keep it from him that a dormant spark’s been fanned?
Obey? Surrender to his will, my all-too-willing lips!
Have sympathy for those who cannot know these nectar’d sips.

Sonnet 1

Who is my Muse? Urania perchance --
The one who causes me to gaze at stars?
Terpsichore then; she who leads my dance,
And wand’ring, practising my choral bars.
Melpomene is not my choice today
For tragedy is not my current style.
Not Euterpe, who makes the music play,
Nor Thalia, whose presence makes me smile.
Though Polyhymnia would speak full well
The instrument is flawed; that’s been shown.
Calliope would take too long to tell
Her tale through me; and Clio’s story’s known.
I sense Erato’s work in what I choose,
Although I know that Helos is my Muse.