St. Joe Chicago (never Ohio) now in Orlando (via some days in Kissimmee) on the far reaching edges of insanity and at times in mild hysteria (where I’m known to grow purple wisteria) but none can compare to your eyes (where I’ve also died)
A journey in the form of a Rubaiyat for dVerse’s month-long form challenge, hosted by Frank Hubeny. I have been reading Cantos by Ezra Pound, hence that opening line. A journey not meant to be understood, simply enjoyed for the sound and feel. 🙂
I reset the chess set this morning, six months it sat mute in the upstairs office, sent there to avoid weddings, parties of summer, autumn, cold stone accusations I ignored each night passing the door switching off lights
I gathered the pieces set them in crowds in the center of the board, minglers at a cocktail party clusters of soldiers, royalty and clerics, as though they have something to talk about over champagne and cold fish
I reset them this morning, lines facing ready for battle wondering if I remember my first move while spring threatens to approach
All I ask is that you lick your phone less and maybe use your hands to play childish string games cradling cats here’s the church here’s the steeple instead of building barriers of one-handed pepperoni pizza and stiff cold-jointed bones to worship, worship, worship
Lake Morton, in Lakeland, Florida is filled with easy shots. I admit it – I took the easy shots. The only one of these that required anything of me was the Ibis with his face of curiosity. He would only approach if you weren’t looking. I love the faces of the birds that I encounter – they are so filled with expression, even if it is the expression that I assign them through personification. Saturday was glorious and warm and a short day trip was the perfect thing.
My mother’s grave is covered now in gold and yellows mums; I never visit there. The wind in winter blows too rough and cold; I lack the strength to stand the frigid air against my face; my hands would only ache. Sucking in the chill my lungs burn dry, I’d gasp and clutch a tree against the break- neck speed of gales and squalls that singe my eye. No, I remain deep in the south where warm, the sun can only do me good, and think of how the snow drifts round the stone in storms; where frozen mums are waiting roses pink to kiss the face of God when time is done and scatter blossoms all about in sun.
Breaking with the strictest rules of the English Sonnet, I have chosen the following aberrations: The first eight lines are broken, not into two quatrains, but into syntactical breaks of five and three. This choice is made to propel the poem forward with a sense of urgency and to support the imbalance of the voice.
Also, line seven is only 9 syllables, which echoes the meaning of the line — stolen breath. Lastly, line nine, which serves as my turn (volta) is clearly not in iambic form, which puts into question the choice made to not visit. Because the subject matter of this sonnet is meant to express an asymmetrical feel, these slight deviations are designed to support that.
I welcome feedback regarding these choices!
Join us at dVerse Poet’s Pub where we are challenging ourselves with the Sonnet Form. This week I am hosting a special edition of Meeting the Bar where I support our month-long Sonnet Challenge with a close look at how the enjambed line impacts our sonnets.
Join me at dVerse for Meeting the Bar where my challenge is to write a poem in one of the Repetitive Forms. We explore 5 potential forms: Villanelle, Terzanelle (like this one!), Pantoum, Triolet, and the Chant. Of course, you are also welcome to use any form that makes use of repetitive lines. Hope you will join in!