Collection of various sonnets, updated twice a week (for as long as I can keep it up).


Monday Sonnet: Sanctis

Damn lack of italics. Sanctis is meant to be italicised in the poem.


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


First in a new collection called Exodus. Signals a break from my previous sonnets.


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

Tuesday Sonnet: Canzoniere

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

Friday sonnet: Verona Song

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

Tuesday Sonnet: The Barbarian Thought

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

Thursday Sonnet: Canto

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.

Monday Sonnet: Pebble's Lament

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

Thursday Sonnet: Proverb

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.

Friday Sonnet: Enumeration

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

Monday Sonnet: TS

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

Sunday Sonnet: Eulogy

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,

Thursday Sonnet: Song of Treasures

Acknowledgements to Neil Gaiman's Sandman issue #6 for the sentence which originally inspired this poem.

Monday Sonnet: Coda

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.

Thursday Sonnet: Canticle of Cartago

Cartago is Latin for Carthage, in case you're wondering.

Monday Sonnet: Birds

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.

Thursday Sonnet: Thames Song

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.

Monday Sonnet: The Trial of the Mind

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,

Thursday Sonnet: Storm

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

Thursday Sonnet: Becoming Spring (I)

This was my entry for the abctales competition, just adding it to my archive. :)

Thursday Sonnet: Becoming Spring (II)

Ditto per below, part II of the same thing

Tuesday Sonnet: Merits

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

Friday Sonnet: Silver

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:

Tuesday Sonnet: The Wisdom of the Old

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

Tuesday Sonnet: Theatre

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

Saturday Sonnet: Eternity

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

Monday Sonnet: A Tapestry of the Air

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.

Wednesday Sonnet: The Stream (I)

Part 2 to follow in a couple of days.

Monday Sonnet: The Stream (II)

Direct continuation of the previous sonnet, took me slightly longer than expected.

Thursday Sonnet: Flourish

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

Sunday Sonnet: Matrimony

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

Looking at your old photo

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,

Monday Sonnet: Lindt D'Or

Monday morning rant. Take it for what it is. :P

Tuesday Sonnet: The Garland

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.

Thursday Sonnet: To Mars

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

Tuesday Sonnet: I have mingled my bread with weeping

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

Saturday Sonnet: To the Nephew

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

Sunday Sonnet: To the girl who smiled

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,

Monday Sonnet: Hope

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

Tuesday Sonnet: Immortality

“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;

Friday Sonnet: Monologue

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,

Saturday Sonnet: Little Proverb

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.

Tuesday Sonnet: Huzzah!

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,

Thursday Sonnet: Paris

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

Thursday Sonnet: About Milkshakes

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

Saturday Sonnet: Meditation

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

Monday Sonnet: On clothes

Written when a friend commissioned a poem on clothes. Enjoy!

Monday Sonnet: Diversity

Some harsh language, hence I'm filling up the teaser to avoid it showing in the preview. :P

The Disciple

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,

Wednesday Sonnet: The Actor to the Audience

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

I will

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;

The Path

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

Wednesday Sonnet: To Italy

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

Thursday Sonnet: Dreams that die

Written on submission by a girl (she suggested the title).

Epic Song

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,
Poem of the week

To an ideally beautiful girl 1

First of two sonnets to an unbelievably beautiful (but, alas, rather stupid) girl I met some time ago.

To an ideally beautiful girl 2

Second sonnet to that impossibly beautiful, remarkably stupid girl.

Tuesday Sonnet: Sonnet to an attractive girl

In line with the previous two sonnets, though this one girl was not quite as attractive (and a great deal smarter).