Sonnet I: Grades of Paper

Upon a time, my love, a diary
Of paper, stained with words set down in ink;
Revealing all a boy might feel, and think,
And strive, and pray, and wonder what might be;

That, would he, worthy of thy love, decree?
On paper, yes; but also on the brink–
Withholding nothing more–profess; and think,
If then not worthy, tears he shed for thee

Would blur his ink; such tears as fell like rain
To paper; ran his words, as ran his heart,
Cascading down, as rivers, all his pain;
So mixt with joy, and hope we would not part.

Yet now, his tears, upon a keyboard, fall,
Not mixt with joy, nor pain, nor seen at all.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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Intro 1: Time Over Time

Wrote, of that I wrote
Within a thought once within,
Without is without.

Always it began,
As reliable as though
It ran like clockwork,

My love, did I sit,
Outside, under an awning,
Watched and listened as it rained.

And sometimes, I cried;
All my tears, all my ink, mixed;
And wrote I such things:

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Sonnet: Be the Change

I read; and then I write; and am refined.
I comment, then I like, and then agree–
Devoutly follow everything I see
And proudly let it wander through my mind.

The order which such actions are combined,
Could offer up a great variety.
Yet still, this order is, to some degree,
The one my heart prefers, and is inclined

To offer up my strength that I enrich
Each author, and his talent; and decree,
Though safe within my digital redoubt,

I’ll be the very transformation which
Into the world, I’ll bring, and wish to see;
And by my very actions bring about.

Romanticism Is Overrated

What perhaps no-one in a class will tell you–not a teacher, perhaps not another student (unless such a student is very clever indeed)–is that the two are beautifully compatible. Such a thing these days, is occasionally being referred to as “Romantic Realism.” This is, if you turn the clock back a hundred or a hundred and fifty years ago, the actual meaning of the term “romanticism.” However since this word has been co-opted, the term “Romantic Realism” is beginning to replace it. It can also be problematic simply Googling the term “Romantic Realism,” because I am perhaps the only artist, or one of the few, who would so tag any of my work–at least openly. And because it being a true outcast–a true alternative–such work is cautiously or timidly presented as such. There is even quite a lot of venom against it. This venom is quite institutionalised, which is why you are presented with Realism and Romanticism as a dichotomy at school where in fact no such dichotomy exists. This is what one may term a “false dichotomy;” for, where two instances are compatible to so great a degree, no dichotomy exists, except one that is quite deliberately false.

No subjects are taboo to romanticism (romantic realism) but the tenor of such writing is thus, even regarding evil subjects: “Look at this! Isn’t it amazing!! Isn’t it grand how very strange and evil it is!!!) And when writing about that which is good, we show the best it can be–even in a novel wherein such characters fail to closely approach such an ideal. We show, perhaps, or give the impression: “Look at this!! This is how good it can be!!! This is the ideal to pursue.!!!!” Such writing, or art, makes us see, not fantasy, as might be intimated in a modern classroom, but possibility.

Everything I write is along that vein, for example. All that I currently post on-line, however, are sonnets, which might not be so “accessible,” and are not to just anyone’s taste. However if you should take a few moments and google, for example the sculpture of Danielle Anjou. And take a few more moments to find out a bit more about her life–and three fascinating career changes–I think it will be immediately obvious what I mean (and none of the above long-windedness will have been necessary)

In retrospect, I have a link handy here: http://sonnetblog.wordpress.com/tag/fh84y398h/ if you click on the image you find there, it will take you to her site.

And, I should like to apologise, if none of this makes any sense to you, Since I am reblogging this, it is only partly directed toward your entry, even as it is partly directed at those who might be confounded by such a false dichotomy as above I have described, and who might have some kind of sense–as though perhaps, a wordless impression–that “something,” in the way in which this subject is generally viewed or presented “is amiss.” It is to such people who I should like to provide some clarity.

Boredom Boy's avatarThe Adventures of Boredom Boy

Yeah, I said it. Someone in my class said that people tend to like Romantic writers better because we want an escape. I don’t agree. I think Realism writers can provide just as strong an escape. Romanticism is a part of every day life. People romanticize everything: their car, a presidential candidate, their newest love interest, etc. It is not that Realism is realistic, it just tries to be. And it is not that Romanticism is romantic, it just tries to be.
I think I am arguing the definitions of these works and genres. I see more Romanticism than Realism in my reality, my daily life. So, for me, Realism offers more of an escape.

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Sonnet: Tropic

If I Could know or see a life completely
Through a man’s word, written; not unduly;
If, they have been blurred, and are not truly
Yet for me, intended.  Nor discreetly,

Read of she, her diary, so sweetly
Not a thread of insight, pathos, nor
A fresh idea, nor hatred even.  More
Of which I name, created more Completely?

Even understand it partly?  I
Think not. Knows my heart Miller when I read
His Tropic wrought; or Baudelaire to plumb
His Fleurs du Mal? We know, nor care not, why;
And whereupon shall words of men know heeding;
Merely learn what we, must needs, become?

Sonnet V: The Peace Prayer | David Emeron: Sonnets

I have recently titled this one “The Peace Prayer” which is a reference to Samuel Clemens’ (Mark Twain) “The War Prayer”

These two are none too opposite, in that they both reflect something quite true, and point out, among other things, unintended consequences; Mr Clemens work, the untended consequences of war and praying for victory in war; and mine, the same for peace. This dichotomy underscores for me the nature of peace and how peace and freedom are related. Freedom, even here in the US, creeps away by inches. I think it must not matter the form of governance attempting to watch over it, except to say that the US has been remarkably resistant to this, particularly when one realises that we are much more a target for such sedition than perhaps any other civilised nation.

I have come to realise that there is only one price with which such freedom can be purchased back once it has crept away to a greater or lesser degree. That price is paid in blood. I believe our founders knew this and took amazing steps, given their circumstances, to preserve this hard won freedom for as long as possible.

She sang her hymn before her eyes had seen
The glory of the coming of the Lord;
The blood, and death, of mortar, gun, and sword;
And brother killing brother, long had been.

Then callow, sang of peace, with freedom won,
To eager faces, white, and brown… and black;
Whose liberty had just been handed back
Still soaked with blood by mortar, sword, and gun.

Imagine men had heard that hymn, four score
And seven years of blood and death before;
Heard next her callow, pacifists decree;
Laid down their arms to study war no more.

With shackled peace, from sea to shining sea,
What hue would, now, such eager faces be?

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Sonnet: Forgetting Time

Alas, though I have searched throughout the nation,
Finding none alive as fair as she;
I thought, most certainly, that some would be
As they, who might approximate her station.

But, there lived not one in all creation;
Not withstanding that, already, we
Have formed a bond unbreakable. To thee
I’m joined, yet none awakened one temptation

That could steal my heart, from thee, away.
Such hurt do now I feel–when I renew
My certainty–for other men, who yet
May never know the firmament to sway
Upon the merest trace of she; forgetting
Time, while they, as mee, their hearts, pursue.