Thursday

Headache, pain in the joints.

Failed job interview.

Sonnet 26

Years ago, in the late 1970's, a friend was showing me slides of a Mediaeval event she'd attended at the University of Toronto. I was enjoying them, in a relaxed fashion, when I suddenly saw a picture of the most handsome man I'd ever seen.

I joined the group and made a lot of friends but, over the next few years, one friend in particular had taken a dislike to this handsome man -- who'd seemed interested in me. She threw a spanner in the works at every opportunity, although I didn't realise it until years later, with the result that we both ended up married to other people.

This is for my first love ... and for what might have been.

You kiss me firstly with your eyes
Persuading me with burning glance
That sweeps my features and implies
The launching of a grand romance.
And then you kiss me with your voice
The warmth of it surrounding me,
Enticing me to make a choice
And choose your clever repartee.
You kiss me lastly with your hand.
Your touch is gentle on my arm.
It tells me that you understand
Me well, and adds much to your charm.
Mayhap you’ll kiss me with your lips
And give me love in nectar’d sips.

Health is improving

For over twenty years I have had problems with an hiatus hernia and, most of the time, had to sleep propped up in order to avoid stomach pains for half the night.

In the two weeks since I moved into my new house, I am suddenly not having any stomach problems at all. Now, I am sleeping on one pillow.

Nothing Like

Obviously, this isn't a sonnet, but I've been filling out insurance forms for the past few days, preparing to buy a new house on my own. This has brought back, in hideous clarity, my mother's battle with cancer.

*

My mother ran our household
with single-minded rule.
She made our choices for us
for clothes and work and school.
With little say, my Gran and I
looked sadly at each other.
I murmured hopeful words to her
"I'm nothing like my mother."

My mother was well-organized
but lacked imagination.
She claimed I was endeavouring
to rise above my station.
I thought of the ideas she
was quick enough to smother,
and then I said, defensively,
"I'm nothing like my mother."

My mother died of cancer; she
was ill for several years.
I see the way I'm headed and
I'm trying to still my fears.
At the funeral, my friends and I
just looked at one another.
I mouthed, again, the desperate words
"I'm nothing like my mother."

The Three Divos

This is not a poem, but about voices that are sheer poetry.

On Saturday, I attended the debut concert of The Three Divos in Ottawa, Canada. They are three talented men with incredibly beautiful voices, who have worked hard to achieve their high level of excellence and we are extremely fortunate that these men chose to come and live here.

They are:
Franko Tenelli, tenor
Igor Emelianov, baritone
Alexander Savtchenko, bass
and they were accompanied by the equally talented Julia Gavrilova on the piano.

The first part of the evening's entertainment consisted of nine selections from Italian operas. The second half consisted of Russian pieces -- some operas and some folk songs. All three voices were amazing in the different arias presented but one, in particular, gripped my soul. I speak of Igor Emelianov, who put exquisite emotion into the words without coming across as overblown.

I felt as though Mr. Emelianov's voice had surrounded me with warmth and energy. It made me want to sigh, and laugh, and cry at the various situations presented by the music. I cared about what was happening. Was it the selections he sang that prompted such a reaction from me? It's possible, of course, but I don't think so for I was familiar with some of the pieces sung by the other men and, while I enjoyed them prodigiously, I didn't feel the same emotional reaction as I did to Mr. Emelianov.

I have been hearing all their voices for the last few days, remembering the music and the delightful presentation of it. But I hold Mr. Emelianov's singing in a special place in my heart.

Triolet

I was in a class on Saturday and the exercise was to take one of the famous Mediaeval or Renaissance first lines that had been chosen by the teacher and write a new ending for it.

This first line is from the Lais of Marie de France by Yonec. It was written about A.D. 1170. The word 'paved' does not have the accent in any of the translations I've seen; I added it because I thought the line worked better that way.

The form used here is a triolet and the rhyme scheme is: ABaAabAB

In a big room, pavéd with stone
Lies my love; pale, cold, dead, and grieved.
He’s in his coffin, his face shown
In a big room, pavéd with stone.
He was the sweetest man I’d known
And his demise leaves me bereaved.
In a big room, pavéd with stone
Lies my love; pale, cold, dead, and grieved.

Sonnet 24

I don't know how I'm going to be able to work on the novel that goes with this sonnet sequence. I can't concentrate enough to do any writing.

This sonnet is one that I wrote for my ex when we were dating. I like to think that I've improved as a poet. I may end up using it in the sequence anyway.

I've heard that there are people who can care
As much for jewelled knives and cloth-of-gold
And that which, in a market, can be sold
As for their lover's thoughts. Some people dare
To claim the robes which they so proudly wear
Are finer still than all love's whispers. Bold
Are the people who think that owning gold
Is sweeter than the kisses that they share.
But you and I know better than to leave
The sweetness of our lover's lips unkissed.
No fools are we who'd rather spend our days
Embraced. By living thus, we shall not grieve
For all the times and chances we have missed.
We'll share our love. The rest may go their way.

Sonnet 23

How can my tongue be still, while my heart cries
To tell you of my love in song and tale?
How can my silence reign, when timely sighs
Would tell you more than words could e'er unveil?
Think not that by my silence I must fail
To see the glory that is yours alone.
If love could, over silent lips prevail,
My heart would then, to your heart, be well known.
Your aspect renders words mere commonplace.
And yet the thought of speech fills me with flame.
If I could no more look upon your face,
No Christian stone would ever bear my name.
Through silence I will love in my own ways,
And deem the most effusive words poor praise.

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.