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
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!
De is hosting the Quadrille at dVerse this week; come and raise a toast with us as we enter a season of cheer!
It occurs to me that Phoebe and the Buffleheads would be a great name for a rock band, but in reality, these are two of the birds that winter here in Central Florida. It is a seasonal milestone when each of these species arrive; one for which there is much rejoicing in the land 🙂
The sun has risen just as it always does
The leaves turn brilliant colors and they fall
I see it all with placid eye because
I really have nothing new to say at all
Never mind me; it won’t be my downfall
Love has come to stay, where it never was
That smile across the breakfast table mine alone
I see it all with tranquil eyes because
I really have nothing new to say, I merely drone
Never mind me if clever words have flown
Death arrived, a bee without a buzz
It stings and gives no honey in return
I see it all with docile eyes because
I really have nothing new to say that can be heard
Never mind me; I’ll sit beside the fire, watch it burn
The sun has fallen just as it always does
The crocus and a daffodil burst through the snow
I see it all with timid eyes because
I really have nothing new to say, no words to show
Never mind me; it matters not, although…