…is sonnet IV of the Shakespeare reflected variety. As usual, it is a reverse Spenserian. Internal rhymes are all couplets (also as per usual) however this time, I used all of Shakespeare’s rhyming words for these. I use these in the order in which they appear, excepting that they are rearranged to couplet form. Mechanically this worked better than expected; however I feel the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end, as no doubt, Lucas is “gunning” for this one.
Tag Archives: Art
Sonnet: Jena
Just wait ’til dost thou see her, as have I;
A luscious and so mischievous a thing;
Not hesitant her mind to speak, or tease;
Enjoying every twist that might it bring.
To know her is, as I, to know her wry
Tempestuousness, enervated so.
And take from thee delight, as doth she please;
But even then, so much doth she bestow.
Endow thee all the more, doth she thereby,
Regarding not thy happiness nor joy;
No good to give, that first did not appease;
In truth, wilt not thou notice, but enjoy.
Enigma wrapped in mystery is she,
Rewarding us this fortune, I, and thee.
- One more for Jena
Never fear, I have not…
…disappeared. I shall be resuming after a much needed respite. I have, as some here know, been ill; although not seriously, still lingeringly! Still it seemed an appropriate reward for my sixth month mark having been achieved–actually taking time to recover without undue stress on my body or mind.
I plan to resume tomorrow–or later this afternoon–with a new sequence. This is the proposed “gateway to sonnet form,” or one might term it “gateway drug to sonnet form.” I myself have so termed it . My plan is to start with freeverse constrained only by being limited to fourteen lines and proceed from there, toward blank verse, and then lyrical couplets and onward from there.
I have not yet decided if it will be one piece continually evolving, or a series of pieces either related in subject, or progressing in a particular direction. We shall see….
Sonnet XII: Patronage
Hast thou the heart to touch, or even look
Upon such art as this and give its due
An thou profess as fanciful, outgrew,
Though for this canvas rapture overtook;
But are such things professed forever true:
That hath these sculpted works thy nature shook;
And shall thy past refinement be forsook,
Though long thou from thine innocence withdrew?
Rare, priceless, as may not be seen again,
Wilt claim thou of thy prime: the best doth wane;
And of this art, so fast a friend may come,
Though whether ancient made or new, as fast.
Shalt thou most proper frame such art at last,
Or once more to thy patronage succumb?
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Sonnet XI: The Art of War
How strangely opposite our sameness then,
My friend; although I know thy form–as hard
As mine–not pliant, nor as soft, we men;
Nor sweet, as fond our distaff we regard.
With toil, these untendered limbs are scarred,
That reach for thee, though laughingly, with force
To equal thine, as though we will have sparred–
Yet battle merely reticent remorse.
And, having long since made our peace, the source
Of this reserve has fuelled our desire;
And brought us far along our wicked course!
That we, forbidden wickedness, conspire.
And–battle, artistry, or sin–we choose
This contest both would win, or wish to lose.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 11: Reticent Reserve
I feel now I have
Embarrassment’s pinnacle
Reluctantly reached.
Sonnet II | Lyrical Love
I never know when she will come or go, but when she appears, there is always such beauty:
Come with me, into the chilled winter mist…
Our hearts breathe, under silent, navy sky,
Frosting moonlight with every passioned sigh.
Let us wander in an evergreen whist,
Where the seduction of heat will insist…
That we create a burn hot as July.
As closer we draw, the stars can’t deny,
Brighter we burn if we torridly kissed.
You reached my soul with your caress of word.
You left me shaken and trembling and weak,
You wrapped me in a haze of devotion
I breathed your love in, not able to speak.
The silence more piercing than what is heard,
I awoke…entwined in silk emotion.
David Emeron: Sonnets 