I always wanted to be a poet… not for the fame or riches mind you (as if poetry has ever been an art form to inspire either) but because I can hardly think of a better occupation to be compensated for. For me, it’s akin to being paid for sleeping or eating, reading or writing.
Well… I guess technically I am being paid to write now, but there’s a host of peripheral responsibilities that accompany what few hours of the day I am able to devote solely to the craft of writing.
Still, the idea of writing poetry has always appealed to my soul. Granted, I’ve never been any good at it, but I’ve always passionately loved reading and writing poetry. Sometimes (on all-too-rare occasions) I’m able to unearth a clever phrase or little turn of words, though usually it just comes across as flowery and rather amateurish poetic prosing.
Last night I was sprawled out on my bed clicking and swirling my fingers over my smartphone, while my youngest son slept curled up against me. I wasn’t able to get up, for fear of waking him. Xander wasn’t feeling good and had fought against sleep for a few hours. When he finally surrendered I wasn’t going to do anything that might wake him, so I was stuck.
My thoughts wandered and a few phrases came to mind… fifteen minutes later these sonnets came burbling out almost fully formed. I was pleased with the results, so I want to post them here.
Oh, a quick word about the sonnet notation… I’ve been trying to keep better records of my work lately. It’s increasingly occurred to me that I should organize my writings a bit better. In the event that I mature into a writer of any sort of talent or skill, someone (my children) someday (after I’m dead) might want to know when or in what order I wrote certain things… specifically, my sonnets.
You see, I’ve been actually trying to write sonnets lately. I have a tremendous respect for them. In my cantankerous old age I’ve grown a trifle weary of free verse and less structured poetry. I feel like anyone can ramble off a stream of words (without order or design) and communicate a vague feeling. Heck, I’m doing that right now.
But a sonnet (or a haiku/senryu, or other form that has “rules”) requires a certain level of discipline and craft. So I’ve been writing sonnets lately, and keeping track of them. The sonnets I wrote tonight are numbers 9, 10, and 11 respectively.
“Pleasure Comes When Days Are Hard”
On a cold March night, I long for Summer
while my aching bones tremble wearily.
Tired eyes watching ev’ry glowing ember
as the firelight hides my dark reverie.
Such days are not long, nor such nights either.
The southern sun presses onward, upward.
Of Springs or Autumns, I prefer neither,
but how the pleasure comes when days are hard!
How a mother’s labor brings forth her child
and cost is forgotten in blood and pain,
so are our aims struck dumb and beguiled,
and a frailty courted without restrain!
O buds of new days, hope springs eternal…
Autumn’s equinox to solstice Vernal.
“Trudging In An Ever-Ending Woe”
On a night so cold I long to burn
that summer sun could slay me with a fire.
Tired eyes never tearing, fail to turn
and never shall my thoughts of you retire.
Still I swell in spite of all my thoughts
and my breast will heave as it is wont,
turning to your last “forget-me-nots”
ghostly as the pale who still they haunt.
Siring sorrow sifting through a gap,
trudging in an ever-ending woe,
hearing slow footfalls and thunderclap.
Stealing glances at those cast below,
piled and congealed into a mass,
all good things we know shall come to pass.
“Contemplate The Day”
Oh the glorious summer nights
upon the luminous hills.
The moon dancing in the starlight,
the silence that time kills.
My eyes closed shut once more
and in sleep I did see
your beauty shook me to the core
body angelic mystery.
I hope to see you again soon,
I hope you come to stay;
for when I reminisce, I swoon
and contemplate the day.
Yet even with eyes entwined in mine,
I knew our light was never meant to shine.