Only natural,
That I should try this modern
Canopian form.
Tag Archives: Romanticism
Sonnet: His Nightingale Woman
My Love hath wings–slender, feathered things–
With grace in upswept curve and tapered tip.
My Love doth soar–swiftly to adore–
So twisting ever toward, and graceful skip.
So danceth She–round and round to thee–
Enrapt to bring us care, to bind us kept.
My Love doth know–thou, my love, bestow–
Thine Own, as did He dance and graceful stept.
For now as wed… They–Our Love hath said–
Would bear us hence anon as spectral ships;
So lovely They–so lighted, Their display–
T’would ere illuminate our Earthly trips.
And lovely, we–Love and I, and thee–
Take flight, as once I tasted first thy lips.
- For Gene Roddenberry:
And, to his memory;
Who, in all probability,
And, so very long ago,
Penned the first two lines.
Intro: Gene Roddenberry
Sonnet: The Third Law
When breaks the dawn again affirming day,
This iridescent treasure, doth the sun,
Come supplely spreading visions, doth the one
Who made it known in every spreading ray;
When, just as day began, its noble way
Can never be impeded. Neither shun,
That life itself hath once again begun;
That never will its paradox delay.
The measure of a a man shall always be
His motion, or determinicity;
His ever ready willingness, to shine
As will he, ever happiness to find.
For such is life, as such is ever light,
That finds its final triumph in the night.
Intro: Q. E. D.
As man may achieve
So may he show others the way
By one selfish act.
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:
David Emeron: Sonnets 