Sonnets And Sundry!

[Wamba_the_Fool]

We've got Limericks and Haikuu, how about some Sonnets, too?

EDIT: Hwæt, adventurer: in these halls lie creatures far stranger than mere sonnets and their ilk, ho aye. The multisyllabic things you'll find within / put the lie to the saw "what it says on the tin." (So join in, maybe?)

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---

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"For My Young Lady"

One dozen times our nuptial day has passed --
Not once, but every day we say "I do" --
So many times we're told this cannot last,
And yet we buckle down and swear anew.
So what if all the world laughs on, and jeers?
We know the rock on which this household's found --
We may not know what comes in future years,
But we know Him to Whom we're ever bound.
And see with what great bounty we've been blessed:
Four gifts -- uniquely theirs, though thine and mine.
Fret not, nor concentrate on times you've stressed:
'Tis so that you may more the drossless shine.
spaceI wish no other woman by my side,
spaceJust you alone - my own, my love, my bride.

[Silky Gooseness]

A whimper breaks the calm of every night -
A babbling that bursts into a cry;
I shuffle on my slippers, click the light;
I stumble in the nursery and sigh.
“What’s wrong?” I ask. But there is no reply
Except more wailing: mother, all’s not right!
Though there are many methods I might try
I know there’s but one way to solve her plight,
And plus, I’m too exhausted now to fight.
It’s nursing time again. But, by-and-by
The tension that has screwed her face up tight
Will soften, as the dawn brightens the sky.
One night, I tell myself, she will sleep through;
And if I’m really lucky, I will too...

[Wamba_the_Fool]

@merSILess That's really good for 19 minutes!
Edit: Not meant to be disparaging in any way, I really enjoyed it. The timing just cracked me up. And if you seriously did whip that up in <19 minutes, then serious props / removal of hats to you!

[Silky Gooseness]

@Wamba_the_Fool I just typed it straight in on the spot. Apparently sleep deprivation is an inspiration

[Silky Gooseness]

It seems that sonnets are too long a form
of poetry for people to engage;
Though it’s the kind that makes my heart most warm
It seems I am alone upon this stage.
Though, long ago, I ran a Sonnet School
Wherein we practised variants and rhymes,
and counted out our iambs, spool by spool
to make our meters march in perfect times;
We learned the rules so we might better break
them: playing with the sanctity of verse
For what is it that might a sonnet make,
And what happens if I just ignore the meter and the rhyme format anyway?

If we restart a poetry school, who’s in?
No need for sonnet forms; apply within

[Wamba_the_Fool]

For what is it that might a sonnet make,
And what happens if I just ignore the meter and the rhyme format anyway?

A record-scratch accompanying this poor Fool's whiplash, for one!

---

Admitting all my overthinking true,
I'll sign up for a po'try school post-haste.
Here's hoping that this choice I will not rue,
And that my writings aren't like I eat paste.
Oh yes, pride is bound up in heart of man,
And self-esteem too oft is based on posts;
But one will not improve as well he can,
If he attempts not that of which he boasts.
So in conclusion I hereby apply,
Oh shoot it's not the volta yet, uh, um,
Time to dig deep in brain-pan to supply
The right amount of iambs and dah-dums.
And now we're at the final two GGs;
"Good game" is right; hope you've enjoyed my wheeze.

16 minutes!

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Avast, ye dogs, ye salt-grimed men of woe,
And hear a tale of Benjamin the Blade;
No buccaneer since played the way he played,
No privateer e'er laid old Benjy low.
But once upon a time, when tides were slow,
When moonlight gently on the breakers weighed,
They say the Blade pledg'd for the Devil's aid, 
And traded blood for luck - but not his, no!
spFor how else can this slipp'ry fellow sail
spAcross old Neptune's back with ne'er a storm?
spAnd how else can the empires' navies fail
spTheir sacred, tested, duty to perform?
spThe songs of Benjamin cross all the bays -
sp"Huzzah!" Your shouts and greasy tankards raise!

[Bereth]

You are both simply amazing! And to forge them so quickly! A hearty huzzah, please keep em coming!

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Why doth the whimsy-mancer wend his winding way to me?
Have I the clanging cauldron kept for drifting crystal-spore?
I wot not spiel-craft, spring-draughts past my ken, clairvoyancy -
So whence this wight, with withered frame and chewing at his chore?

Why doth the whimsy-mancer bend his boots to boom my door?
Can I the gentle djinns coerce to carry judgments cruel?
I have no Heav'n-sent heath-scent said to spread red prescience o'er -
So if this fat-lubed fairy-wrangler dasts, he's twice the fool!

Why doth the whimsy-mancer climb my crag so calm and cool?
Am I this sector's expert such this seer has come to see?
I will not kill-shot ill-sought old sots e'en if they're a tool -
So though this mage of hedges hath my ire, he's safe from me.

And soft, he's almost here: "Sirrah, what wouldst thou have this hour?
"What's that? Well, yes, I have and, yes, can spare a cup of flour..."

@Sil

[Silky Gooseness]

Dear sir, I’m summoned; but what verse is this?
‘Tis not a sonnet: they have but five feet;
Although your assonances are <chef’s kiss>
and I admire the drumming of your beat;
Perhaps it’s but a different style you vaunt
In which case: let’s display them all, my friend,
Our wordplay written rightly we shall flaunt
Each syllable you type I shall defend.
Why stop at sonnets? Kyrielles! Decimas and quatrains!
We’ll sing and jest, and should we draw a blank
verse from our pockets, well then, for our pains
We’ll only have ambition left to thank.
@Wamba_the_Fool, what say you to this plan?
Cometh the jester and cometh the man...

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Alas! And hath my Saxon blood again
Run off with me? Or rather, should I say,
Run off with my inscribing tool - my pen?
Excuses have I none - I'll join the fray
And mount some ill defense, frayed though it be,
And of some warp and weft so loose you could
Fair steam a battle-ship through holes you see
(And frankly, I'm assuming that you would).
Iambic heptameter not okay?
(Pronounce the "heptameter" British-like)
The Bard himself used tetra- and I'll say
"If you don't like it you can take a hike!"
spaI know - you're merely saying "Change OP!"
spaAlright, let's do't; an' sling a rhyme or three!

P.S.
Enjambment really don't sit right with me;
Accept ye please this contrite 'pology.

@Sil

[Silky Gooseness]

@Wamba_the_Fool,

As I am British, that’s not hard to do!
Pick your next form, sir: I’ll defer to you.

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Hey, @Sil, see if this works, wouldja-please an' thankee-sai?

[Silky Gooseness]

@Wamba_the_Fool
Indeed I can! How good to hear your voice.

[Wamba_the_Fool]

@Sil
Huzzah! Ok good, now I can include some readings along with the writing. Thanks again.

The form's been picked, the hard part's done;
And now I'll write - leave clues for fun.

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Apologies for the delay, @HONEY IN HER HAIR. Notes on the flip-side.

---

When all alarms are blaring out,
And squadron leaders run and shout,
As I tug tight my gloves of leather,
Hear me, baby: hold together.

When all my mates have got undocked,
And all are launched, with S-foils locked,
As some clown jokes about "good weather,"
Hear me, baby: hold together.

When battle-lines are drawn and met,
And targets seen are called and set,
As green and red fill the nether,
Hear me, baby: hold together.

When rear deflectors take some hits,
And wingman warns the engine's lit,
As I, leaf-like, dodge and feather,
Hear me, baby: hold together

---

Notes: The word "kyrielles" in your 20200929 post grabbed my attention - like a cool bug, not like a car-wreck. It sounded vaguely familiar, and when I resorted to that great repository of all humanity's knowledge, Wikipedia, the recognition was revealed: I had heard "kyries" and their repeated pleas. When I saw they were tetrameter I was sold.
The subject is clearly inspired by my recent Star Wars: Squadrons gameplay, to include the result of the pilot's cruelly unanswered plea. The refrain itself not being constructed of iambs, but trochees, I almost gave up on it altogether; and then decided to just lean into it and claim that the shift from iambs to trochees foreshadows and underscores the uncertainty of the pilot heading into jarring combat (thus his plea) and the ultimate shift of the pilot from life to death. This is Star Wars, after all - retcons are part and parcel, par for the parsec.

Question for anyone: Do you understand what the verb form of "feather" in the penultimate line is getting at? I'm afraid it's too esoteric, so you're my test-case! And remember, this is for posterity, so... be honest.

[Silky Gooseness]

Feathering to me is an artistic technique, @Wamba_the_Fool!

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Bah, I was worried about that. I was going for "gently using the throttle," touching it lightly, as lightly as a feather. I've seen "feathering the throttle" used elsewhere.

[Silky Gooseness]

I’d quite forgotten all about this thread!
Forgive me, Wamba: I’ve been rather busy;
In my spare moments, why, I go to bed:
For sleeplessness oft makes me feel quite dizzy;
My days are full of work and baby-caring
My nights: full of the same (which is quite wearing)
And as into my mobile screen I’m staring
My telecalls into my poor skull blaring,
I’m feeling uninspired, quite bereft
of poesy and fancy, all those things
which form my dreams, the thread, the warp and weft
imagination’s tapestry that sings
its quiet song when I take stock and think;
there’s something left of me deep in the ink.

@Wamba_the_Fool: I have never heard the other meaning, alas! But glad to know it now.

[Wamba_the_Fool]

Why doth the frame of weaving oft invite
Comparison to poetry's grave cast?
This has not been the first time I've caught sight
Of "warp and weft" - and likely won't be last.
Why not the blacksmith? Surely that's a trade
Which lends itself to similes for poems!
Sweat drips, sparks fly, the shapeless made to aid
The self-infused enchantment of our tomes.
Mosaics have, for their part, many parts
Appraised, selected, joined together, fit.
Just as with words the poet strains his arts
To show the greater by the lesser writ.
But p'raps I'm backwards, and it rather be
That all these glories are like poetry.

(28)

[The Good Hunter]

A Sonnet for Laurence:

I do profess I love this tiny pup
But now I must confess of this new spar
In morning drim: fresh, foul, and fecund lump
Upon his pad a new sculpture bizarre

This lad of snowy fluff and ice-blue eyes
His innocent woofs do my dreams disrupt
I glimpse in fear his breakfast alchemized
I must custode before the air corrupts

His grin doth belie my mundane horror
Curiously, spuriously as I clean
He watches and woofs my holy terror
And now that I'm done he will dance and preen

Oh to be this little husky’s father
Should his poop really be a bother?

[Silky Gooseness]

Mid-autumn strikes. Below the coin-bright moon
the trains slide on their tracks, a corkscrew spine
that, bending, has not yielded. Late or soon
the summons comes, begrudging, fee or fine
paid down by boardroom beggars. As the light
spins on, the glare reflected in the faces
of the weary, laptops on in dead of night
whilst tapping spreadsheets try to fill the spaces
made by promises unkept, the line crawls on.
The people pause. Steps shuffle as we wait.
The season’s balance: one sweet moment, gone.
The offer made; bite down; it’s far too late.
The serpent swallows down the golden yolk
into its steely belly, full of folk.

[Silky Gooseness]

Turn on the year. The sun’s delayed descent
and early presence rings us all with bright
and shining morning faces. As we went
about our business, following the light
down over shoulders, turning clocks about
to bask for but a moment in the day,
we felt the change bloom deep; within, without,
roots bedded in the soil. So, too, to say
that winds and rain still stripe our striving backs
with sorrow; weariness yet crowns our heads,
and if continued perseverance lacks
a jot of joy that lingers in spring’s beds
The flowers come regardless, every year,
whether or not we stop to see them here.

[Silky Gooseness]

with apologies to William Carlos Williams


A sonnet I have written thee, to say
that I, alas! have eaten of the plums
that thou wert saving for thy meal this day,
no doubt, to break thy fast when morning comes,
secreted deep within that icy box
within which food is kept both chill and whole,
but not secure from me. No paltry locks
could keep me from them. So sorrows my soul;
Apologies, I beg! Their taste was sweet;
and cold withal; more luscious than I dreamed;
A fruit delectable, a tasty treat
for me of stolen treasure, so it seemed.
And so I write this note to say to thee:
I have eaten thy plums. Oh, forgive me!

[Drífa]

Hahaha, that is wonderful, Sil! You are so very talented with words. I envy you!