Hello all. All three of you. 🙂
I have decided to add a new category to my blog called “Poimes.” I have had a lifelong habit of writing poimes — sorry, “poems” — and never sharing them with anyone. For various reasons I would rather not talk about, I have gone through stages where I don’t write poetry at all; nonetheless, poetry is something I tend to come back to as a means of emotional release, if not creative expression. It isn’t really “expression” if I don’t share them with anyone, I mean.
I prefer to use accepted forms for my own poetry, simply because doing so requires a little more thought on my part. As a lifelong fan of not only poetry but also hip-hop and rap music, it’s not difficult for me to rhyme words in my native language of English. It is, however, a good bit more difficult to put rhyming words into a specific form.
…and as anyone who has ever read my blog knows already, when writing prose, I have a tendency to just yammer on and on and on. So instead of doing that here, I will just go ahead and get on with it.
One more thing: like my M*A*S*H blog post, I will add to this post (and possibly others like it devoted to different poetic forms) over time. I guess for posterity’s sake (or whatever), I will add the date at the end of each sonnet.
These sonnets will be numbered, but the reader should realize that “Sonnet 1” does not mean “the first sonnet I ever wrote” or “the most important sonnet on this page” or anything like that. “Sonnet 1” simply means “the first sonnet I wrote after deciding to devote a blog page to sonnets.”
I have no clue how many sonnets will end up being here; if and when they are ever organized (and/or collated with existing sonnets) I reserve the right to order them (and edit them) however I see fit.
Blah blah blah, yadda yadda yadda.
A lovely woman: red hair and eyes of green,
(Or blue?) Her stare conveyed some dark emotion,
Bejeweled daggers aimed at me, it seemed;
Who she was, I’ve not the foggiest notion.
I stood there wanting just to order coffee.
There in the line behind her piercing eyes;
I met her gaze, but couldn’t shake it off me
She seemed to know me, somehow, and despise.
Perhaps I misinterpreted her meaning.
Perhaps she simply didn’t like my shirt.
There wasn’t much to use by way of gleaning;
But her lovely eyes seemed aimed at me to hurt.
Perhaps it was opinions writ online
That set her iron conscience against mine.
I haven’t shown her the love she deserves, ’tis true,
Nor learned as much from her as I should know.
I often ignore her needs when I’m not blue;
Yet she’s been with me too long to let her go.
I keep her in her place, when I don’t feel
The selfish whim to hear her prattling tones.
They remind me of the fact that I am real,
A thing not hard to forget when one’s alone.
Once, a fit of drunken rage did nearly wreck
The humble affection she so selflessly gave.
I slung her ‘cross the room and cracked her neck
And nearly sent her early to the grave.
But all that’s in the past, behind us far:
My Yamaha, she’s been a great guitar.
Music soothes the savage beast, ’tis said.
‘Tis so: often have I sought succor in sound
Drowning sorrow’s weight upon my head
With tunes my listening ears have sought and found.
And too, I have been known to make my own
With cheap guitars, fake drums, as well as keys;
Over the years, much progress has been shown
I know much more than just the chord of G.
But lately my own body doth protest
My limbered fingers’ reach for chords to make.
The tendons in my elbow are a mess;
I cannot play a song without an ache.
For now I’ll listen, rest and maybe sing,
And for my elbow, maybe yoga is the thing.
An existential dread doth plague my soul.
Uncertainty’s feeble digit stabs my chest,
Taunting me and claiming I’m not whole.
Prithee, I beg, canst thou let me rest?
“No,” saith the poet and prophet of literary fame
(the Bard of Democracy, whose name you surely know);
“Soul is body, body and soul the same,
You fear because you’ve let your body go.”
“Get up and work,” the poet’s ghost did say,
“At what, it matters not especially much.
Make your body strong through work (and play)
And thereby quell uncertainty’s frigid touch.”
And thus the lesson learned from Leaves of Grass:
There comes a time to get up off one’s ass.
‘Tis not a thing requiring that much effort:
To dash off lines conforming to some scheme
Invented by some long-dead poet, tethered
To love’s undying death and money’s green.
A poet’s just a cobbler of sweet phrases
Meaningless in any concrete sense.
Behold: “the maiden’s breath like wine’s impatience,”
Does this mean one should hand the girl a mint?
Or does it speak to some unspoken feeling?
One often felt but seldom e’er expressed?
So difficult to say, it sets us reeling,
And often leaves us lonesome and depressed.
And so the poet spends his precious time
Forcing these absurdities to rhyme.