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.