I told her I would do some research and get back with her. Dummies.com has a great little summary on writing a sonnet, explaining both iambic pentameter and classic Shakespearean rhyming patterns.
I was intrigued. I have never written a sonnet. It is about time to remedy that deficit. Here is my first attempt:
Stalker
I shamble through this life with some unease
Regardless of the beauty in the skies,
Nor seeing much that's fair on land or seas,
For only you find favor in my eyes.
I've seen the diamond shimer in the sun,
The emerald grace the brow of foreign gods,
The rubies cut and gleaming for the one
Whose smile did shame them all as mere facades.
The world may call me strange or blind or mad
To miss so much that others see as fair.
To me they seem but frivolous and sad
Compared to thee. Oh, let me stop and stare.
Just let me keep thy vision in my mind,
For earthly sights have never been so kind.
_______________________
I think the form and meter are right. The question is, "How does it make you feel?"
O who, but you, could use such finery
ReplyDeleteTo fill a page with words that blossom free
Of stale, redundant prose, but true to self,
Inspire, light, provoke a mental wealth?
I read in awe and wonder how it be
That I am blood of him whose pedigree
Is far beyond this world of wordy waste.
Instead, a realm of verbal beauty taste.
A smile of contentment on my face
To know no threat or challenge, only grace.
Your humble off'ring giv'n in hopes to reach
Soft ears that listen as you gently teach.
A young apprentice watching from the stands,
I cheer the master wordsmith with my hands.
I blush at such effusive praise as thine
ReplyDeleteYet welcome this reward of all my pains
It makes me want to write a few more lines
To cheer the hearts of those I love again.
These words of mine though never published be
Are worthy still if only read by thee.
Every poem and love story has this character and we call him leading man, romantic hero, Edward Cullen - when really he is a creepy stalker. Brillz!
ReplyDeleteMy best sonnets come from moods of meditation and speculation, particularly, about things I can't explain:
ReplyDeleteI do not know why life must be like this:
A compound mixed of brightness and of gloom--
The venom of the fearful cocatrice,
The fragrance of the morning rose in bloom
I do not know why some must suffer pain,
(God give them all the necessary strength):
But I am grateful I can move amain
(For I am weakling) safely and at length.
But in us all, from some unfathomed source,
There is a recourse equal to our fate,
And we can save our natures from remorse
If we will act before it is too late.
Oh, might we know how best our gifts employ!
Oh, might no breath be drawn that is not drawn in joy...
WL/Mathis
Now, you're speaking my kind of poetry. I love sonnets. I've been writing them since I was sixteen. I freely admit that I am addicted to meter and rhyme and the sonnet is the perfect blend of both. To be appreciated, a sonnet must be read aloud, however. Not to do so is akin to observing the singing of a bird without hearing the music. If we wish to reach into someone's heart, we must write poetry. Philosophers think. Poets feel. And the sonnet? Well, it is meaty, elegant, brief, and always to the point. Who could ask for more?
ReplyDeleteHere's one I wrote over Memorial Day (if you elect to read it, please do so aloud):
The mound is just a little lump of clay
That soon will settle down and flatten out.
The flowers there will wilt within a day;
Unseeing eyes see others strewn about.
And who will know what form is hidden there,
A lump of earth to Mother earth returned?
And who that passes by will ever care
That it once nursed the fiercest fire that burned?
And there are many lying side by side
Who have not seen their neighbor's countenance,
The city fathers see that they're supplied
With service, oft with pomp and circumstance.
The city fathers do not feel the hurt:
Their interest ends when they've arranged the dirt.
WL/Mathis
That's great writing, Wes. I like both pieces, but particularly the Memorial Day sonnet. It has a force that pierces the heart. It recalls for me the feelings experienced the first time I saw the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, DC, overwhelmed by both sorrow and gratitude as all those names swam before my eyes, knowing that each one was someone's brother, uncle, father or son.
ReplyDeleteThanks for the kind words. Coming from a writer of your stature, that means a lot. I probably have a few hundred sonnets in my arsenal of poetry. I'll share one with you every once in a while if you don't mind--and please offer your critique of them when I do.
ReplyDeleteMark, you seem keen to try your hand at new poetic forms. The following poem is a "rondeau," a very old French poetic form. I was reminded of this one when I read your comment about my Memorial Day sonnet. A rondeau is constructed as follows: It must have a title, which begins the first line. The title is then repeated at the end of the second refrain and once again at the end of the last refrain (the end of the poem). Thus, the title appears a total of four times. The poem is generally written in iambic tetrameter or pentameter but other rhythms may be used (dactyllic/trochaic). The first refrain consists of five lines. The second refrain includes three lines plus the title, and the last refrain consists of five lines plus the title. Most French poetry makes use of repetition, which is reflective of a long-standing French, poetic tradition. Since the title is repeated again and again, it is obviously very important to the poem. The trick is to work the repetitions of the title into the poem so that they sound perfectly natural. Almost forgot: The rhyme scheme is AABBA AAB(title) AABBA(title). Poetry consisting solely of two rhymes (A and B) is another long-standing French tradition. In shape (from a distance), all rondeaus look pretty much identical.
ReplyDeleteIn Potter's Field
In Potter's Field they lay the lame
And beaten bodies with no name.
These strangers sleep in staggered rows
Without a marker. Strong wind blows
The crippled weeds that mask their fame.
Slow moonbeams crawl to haunt the tame,
Corrupted dust. A frozen flame
Stands nibbling where a shadow grows
In Potter's Field.
A quiet man called Judas came
With money in his hand. That same
Man, now, is hangining in the boughs
Of one old tree whose shadow flows
Upon those faces, just the same
In Potter's Field.
Ooo, another challenge. Alrighty then, I just posted (6/17/2010) a rambunctious little rondeau for your review. Hope you have as much fun reading it as it was to write.
ReplyDelete