To a girl, not Sue:
To a girl, not even Sioux,
Will she sue, to know?
Tag Archives: Art
Sonnet III | Lyrical Love
The scrolls of words rolled like pathways of green,
Pattered little steps into a deep grove…
Through hawthorns, nettles, poison ivy, wove…
They weaved a song bladed in tangerine,
Slicing open with knives of sweet citrine…
Whispered on winds far, of some secret trove,
Ever coldly buried in the deep iced Nov’.
Does it exist, if ’twere not truly seen?
Thinking some treasure must surely exist,
On the traveler sailed through storms and gales.
Faced bravely the disorienting mist…
Repaired the broken mast and tattered sails.
When all the seas and forests searched, none missed,
Was it a pointless search of empty trails?
Sonnet III: Secret
For this thou speak, though doubtful would suppose,
Nor hesitate obliquely to confess.
Regarding friendship still, thou might obsess
Beyond all compass; thrill-swept, as the throes
Wherewith to cloy thyself so rapt, express
Thine own determined joy. But not oppose
Desire desire‘s object might impose.
Conspired and familiar, this excess:
Unnamed delight, and wicked to implore,
This: framed–as though for art, or to explore,
Or greater havoc know–it would appear
Unleashed, a glow one nary could ignore
In life’s brief curtain: coy, intent, sincere
Thou wouldst covert revere; but not adore.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 3: My Form
When I write of it
That I tend to hesitate
Still; so intimate,
But one of beauty
Is not an object of shame:
The human body.
Sonnet II: Unleashed
For this I want, though seldom would disclose;
Or hesitate to vaunt, or to posses.
Regarding friendship’s trial, I might obsess
Beyond consideration, while the throes
Wherewith I drown myself… so rapt, bestows
Determination bound. But not unless
Desired, desire’s object might profess.
Admired and familiar, this repose
I name: delightful, wickedness. Revere
This touch I frame as art, or I implore,
Or even further; know this would appear
Unleashed, to go where one cannot ignore.
Severe and certain, certainly sincere,
Mine own to this explore, but not endear.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
Intro 2: His Form
The human body
Is not an object of shame,
But one of beauty.
Still, so intimate,
That I tend to hesitate,
When I write of it.
Sonnet I: Mirror
To feel my hand upon a shape, a form
I find familiar in its drape: though known,
It overwhelms my hand by touch alone,
Though sight and sound and scent and savour warm
Me to its thrill, its pleasurable norm,
And call me to its side. And I alone
May know I should confide in that I own,
And hence am owned by that which I transform.
I feel it know at once, as once I know
The day such stark perfection will arrive.
I know reflexively, almost as though
The figure in the mirror comes alive
And reaches out with anything but this:
A touch of any kind, except a kiss.
This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:
David Emeron: Sonnets 