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)