The will to continue on
long after ones original enthusiasm has waned
is the essence of character.
Tag Archives: Life
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:
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:
Sonnet: Diary
Can I know or see a life completely
Through a man’s written word? Not unduly;
Suppose, they have been blurred, and not truly
Intended for me. Nor, though discreetly,
Read of she, her diary, so sweetly
Not a thread of insight nor pathos, nor
A fresh new idea, even hated. More
Of which I name, created? Completely?
Even understand it partly? No I
Think not. Knows my heart Miller by reading
The Tropic he wrought, or Baudelaire from
His Fleurs du Mal? We know, nor care not, why;
And whereupon shall man’s words know heeding;
We merely learn what we, must needs, become?
Sonnet: Strength and Fear
What smile hast thou that moves me so to love?
What strength of heart, that moves thee so to smile?
Wherefrom thy strength–for I have none–yet, while
Thine own, hast brought me such abundance of?
My strength has gone away from me, my dove
Why then hast thou the art to so beguile
Those spirits, of those deaths, which, as my trial,
Belabour soul and heart? I strove, above,
To be the stronger spirit. Yet inspired
By strength–and by thy fear–it now becomes
My heart to strive for joy, or even higher–
Strive, though I have not the strength required
To strive–for such is when, thou must have come
Alive! And so we live again! But why?
Intro: Strength
Do I have any strength
That focusing, that burning, purifying, holy fire;
Watching–patient, reticent–my soul?
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?
David Emeron: Sonnets 