Collection of various sonnets, updated twice a week (for as long as I can keep it up).
I do not know you, my friend, As the one who traced the line Of my prologues like a vine, Eve to eve, and end to end. I only know you as the one Who caught my thunder while it turned
The pathway to my heart is tangled. And the hand that brings to me The branch to plant the olive-tree Is blocked by vines – is blocked and strangled. The chambers of dissent and conflict
I want to write a sonnet to you, though I’m not that into Petrarch (his lament Can get repetitive, when its extent Exceeds 300 sonnets), and I know
Ok, so I’m not Romeo. I have set My canon ’gainst self-slaughter, furthermore, I can’t climb balconies (the fact your floor’s The third one doesn’t help). So yes, I’ll let
So here I am: stuck in this Masters' course Which only is a step in my career (A path which, more and more these days, I fear Will lead to nowhere, other than divorce
Before the tree that is the root of every Story bled an apple from its boughs, The words I speak to you were made of ivory, Unsullied by my tides of Whys and Hows.
If I’d been born a pebble by the shore, My life would be significantly easier. Were I in love, I wouldn’t try to please her With sonnets; I’d sleep flat; I could ignore
Whoever reads this first could you please explain to me how I'm supposed to italicize words in this format? Plus: Acknowledgement to Yatzee Croshaw for a joke.
How do I love you? Let me count the ways. I love you like a camel loves his humps, Like photos love their image, like bumpcars bumps, Like cowboys cows. I love you just like gays
A different kind of failure, Eliot said Of poetry – and won the Nobel prize. He preached humility, so no surprise. Hence, from under the shadow of his red
Extraordinary being, tender light Of clemency by which my pen is writing, Hand, blessed, that guides my path out of the night, And heals this chest, and calms this spirit's fighting,
Acknowledgements to Neil Gaiman's Sandman issue #6 for the sentence which originally inspired this poem.
That's it. There's no more sonnets. You change place. And I will be your Cyrano no more, There will be no more calling you 'Your Grace,' No speech, no other witty metaphor.
Poe’s raven, from a tree, caws ‘Nevermore,’ While both the swans of Baudelaire and Yeats Are fighting to be monarchs of the lakes; Plus, Coleridge’s gull is seen to soar.
It’s pretty good a place, the Thames, to sit by And think of all the ills that time repairs When, laden with young love’s modest despairs, One smooths regret under an indifferent sky.
I do believe that I’m the only man Who’s sane upon this globe, and since we find It’s fact you’d have to have gone mad (or blind) Not to be mad in love with you, madam,
Because the storm of love is raging On a chest too young to claim It has weathered storm and rain I build a house and, in it, staging Pantomimes of rigid bliss, I tell myself and tell myself
This was my entry for the abctales competition, just adding it to my archive. :)
I love the way you speak of sadness as A gift that none of us deserves, like we Had not done work enough to find its tree And pluck its fruits (these our tradition has
No wine these grapes of hurt set free, No coin is bartered for their taste: my lover, My friend, you do no longer look at me… The forging of my fantasies is over:
I know not of the wisdom of the old. I do not even know who called it that: Perhaps an old man, mumbling where he sat – Which means it’s vanity. Or was it told
It’s funny how, now they’re demolishing The theatre, it should reap such great success: There’s crowds, there’s shoves – a rally to be witness! I only walk as though abolishing
It’s true my love for you is not eternal – but then Again, you aren’t either. Would you really Want something that’s been forged so goddamn steely
No, I would not believe that brazen man Whose autumn bronze now rusted by my street: He said I should not breathe your air that sung, Nor tame its winds and tend them at your feet.
Direct continuation of the previous sonnet, took me slightly longer than expected.
The first time that we met your eyes were lined With streaks from lights that now have turned to ash. It still was winter then; the season sighed In mists on the concrete, you were a slash
Before mature emotions come to plant In me their sense or blindness, I will speak This thought (no doubt condemned within a week). I write this to my wife. Although I can’t
Your face is there, your smile, your ways, Those lovely eyes that you have got, But not the passion, no, and not The searing tenderness which days And days saw burnt like matchsticks in
My head is spinning. Where are you, And where’s your sweetness now? When will I taste your fallen glow, Or kneel to kiss your hands of dew Which bear the morning light? No: never …
Dull centurion, genitor, I’m tired of your dire gates, The journeys East, the plums and dates, I can not fight your sunset war. And you, Cleopatra from New York,
When I was young, I used to take the flowers From home, my square green garden, up your slope. But then, since I’d eroded all my hours (Which left me one by one, like bars of soap
There’s trains that rumble like a herd That’s lying siege around the hills, They’re loaded with their tales, their thrills, And runes and legends still unheard.
If by the light of Romulus and Remus You spelt revenge upon us for the sons Of dissipated Troy, burnt out like suns Before you saw their fruit of rage, then deem us
Written when feeling very down in the dumps. Title is from the Bible, fyi.
No, I shall not; I’ve had enough Of libraries as mute as moons, Of limpid autumn afternoons For sharing books and quotes and fluff. One whole season I’ve been lost
It's not to leave, but to return That matters to this fallen plume. I took an echo from an urn Of empty pride to be a tune Of peace and words of friendship, and I followed it into the bottom
This is a poem that I write Because the words have failed the tongue. This is a canticle of night Because my grail has spilled the sun. I was religious, though I thought
I seldom write of death. I’m still too young; My pen has yet to spell of lives dispelled, And when I walked my way, the hand I held Was not the shadow I’ll hold down the long
Here in these streets of judges and police Where we unlace the textiles of our days, I used to search you in the tales from Greece Which speak across the eons, phrase by phrase,
I’m asked to write of hope, a subject which Resists festoons of metaphor with almost The same propriety as death. Foremost Among the skills that make a poet rich
“When I am gone, I shall not be the dust That licks your soles beneath your steps wind-borne, Nor yet the thread of ash that, shorn of lust And reason, trails the mantle of the storm;
Because I find a glance of yours can raze Me to the ground, as though I were the corn Or rye and you the mother of the storm, I purse my lips and turn away my gaze,
If there’s a name for you, it is pronounced In whispers, in a tongue we speak no more; A tongue that’s only used to write the lore Of sacred things, and books of past accounts.
Scared of me? You bet! I've seen your tragic Castles and the holes beneath your cuirass. Paint me stupid – I am full of magic, Bright like stuff of dreams, as warm and true as
They slide away, the days of yore, From wood to ash, from ash to flame Like pages turning in the frame Of an old book, and then no more. Look: in this question of our hour,
Paris, Paris, I have not come to light Or spin you, I’ve not come to sing la Senne, My throat seeks no refreshment from your night And I’m not asking where to go or when.
O Pandora, we have lost, There can be no golden chest, The immortals don’t know best And we know less than them at most. And we will never be remembered, We will never be forgotten
Let’s sum it up; I’m in a break-room, work Begins again in twenty, in which time I barely find the space (or wits) to rhyme, And I am asked to conjure from the murk
I want to know whose war it is That I have fought without a bruise, Without a sound, without the news Of where the breach or the defeat is, I want to hear the name, the cause
It’s true, I am a mess in certain ways, Unstable in my tides of joy and grief, But I am satisfied in the belief I own the grain to feed the mill of days.
You before all others I Am loving with the silence of The secret hands which hold the dove. My bells stand still before the sky; I draw a single letter in The gravel on your path of choice:
The storm is past. Perhaps it was Too brief. The cloud that belts the forehead Of the eagle by the shore, said To be bird of Zeus, has Become an urn of sleep; it pours
The train is riding, rocking gently While it takes me to Bordeaux. Outside, the grasses slowly grow Beneath the mute age of each bent tree. The swelter’s melting into glue
Some harsh language, hence I'm filling up the teaser to avoid it showing in the preview. :P
If you let them say you’re free, And you let them, like they do, Take their guns to me and you, They will frame you, and you’ll see, All your gains will be their own,
When I still had the sunlight in my hair I thought the gods of theatre had misspelt My stage directions; was I Caesar’s heir? I did not feel the quiet others felt
I’m done with fighting. That is what I’m done with. Rise, o thousand words, And screech like pyrotechnic birds The chorus in my throat, Peace, not Crows or spears or medals, only
There still is so much work to do, My friend and cell-mate, if our fates Not spell-bound by a state of states Will lead to valleys of the new. I watch my spirit slowly grow;
There is a voice that’s not of crone Nor crow’s nor rooster’s, yet recites An exegesis days and nights. It speaks to you, to you alone, It stains your every dawn, it soaks
There is a vine that binds us, made of rose And olive leaves, and figs and spikes of pine; It is entwined with sunlight, grain and wine, The song that is our language lets it close
I am the song of dark dark dark I am the bloody neck of lamb I am the scent that hires the shark I am the horn of dithyramb I am the scavenged breast of hope I am the flower of the war
Dawn breaks through the window of My eyes and neurons, and my pen Can barely hold the furious shove Of light’s invaders, fierce like men. I add another to the suns In my portfolio of sky,
First of two sonnets to an unbelievably beautiful (but, alas, rather stupid) girl I met some time ago.