I wrote the following in response to RL King (Lady Day) , not intended it to be poetry, but with the intention of subverting my penchant for wordiness:
Anyone can write.
Anyone can show reality.
Or even bend it to the surreal.
Or to the abstract.
Even bend it to the romantic with your will.
Not everyone can see like this.
Not everyone can see
The romantic in reality.
Not everyone understands.
That to be romantic.
You do not have to bend reality.
You only have to see what is there.
And not ignore the romantic in it.
Just not forget to remember–
Remember not to forget–
Or pretend not to see–
Or pretend you don’t know–
Or deliberately deny–
Or malevolently distort–
What is actually there.
This is what you do when you write.
You see how it is all there.
If you are not sure it is real.
Because you do not know it directly.
If you simply are sure.
Like there is an instinct telling you.
You believe it.
When you do this.
Others will see.
They will step forward.
Some will deny it.
But more will say:
“Yes. I see that too.
“I was afraid to tell anyone.
“How beautiful I thought it was.”
This one probably cannot be analysed outside of the context of its accompanying sonnet. Still it would be a difficult task for anyone but Browning. Or God.
Oddly though, there are many ways in which these both may be read; and yet, the intended meaning might be more difficult to divine than such as I more usually write.
On another note: I believe I shall not move sonnets around, except in rare circumstances. I think it will make things simpler. If I write sonnets in sequences that are interspersed with others, I can simply link them with a unique tag. This will make it seem less futile to insert the “next” links. Which, when I move things around, are rather a chore to fix, because they are not automatically generated. I suppose that would be the advantage of ftp access, or at least a professional theme. We shall see.
…wrote, I believe all, or most, of his sonnets while unable to perform his plays during an outbreak of the plague. There was,at this time, a moratorium placed on most public activities; therefore, concerts and plays of all kinds were, for a time, proscribed. So Shakespeare had little to do but confine himself to his rooms and write. I do not know why he chose to write sonnets at this time, however his chosen form–much simpler, and some might say elegant or sublime–was of his own devising.
His first sequence is some 127 sonnets long and deals with one subject only. Although I am far from an expert on these matters, I do rather feel that the young man to which he is speaking metaphorically in these works is more likely himself than any other, nor do I feel that he was speaking metaphorically to young men in general–although certainly there is a level on which this certainly is the case.
Although I have now written as many sonnets as did Shakespeare at that time, I have certainly not written a sequence much over 10 sonnets in length. There are too many subjects upon which I ponder, to keep to one subject for such a length of time. On the other hand, When I write of love–such sonnets could be taken as a sequence, since they explore different aspects of my love for my sweetheart. Such things as I have felt–and over so many years. I have not counted how many of these are specifically directed to my beloved; however it is bound to be quite a large share, I should think. Possibly more than half? Truly, I am not sure, but perhaps such an accounting would be a worthy pursuit.
Rather than rearranging what I have scheduled to post, I shall delay #11, which will post on January 3rd, 2014. Number 12, which is not yet completed will most likely be done this morning(ish) and will therefore post on January 4th, 2014, or perhaps shortly thereafter.