Tag Archives: Sonnet

Never fear, I have not…

Posted by David Emeron on

…disappeared.  I shall be resuming after a much needed respite.  I have, as some here know, been ill; although not seriously, still lingeringly!  Still it seemed an appropriate reward for my sixth month mark having been achieved–actually taking time to recover without undue stress on my body or mind.

I plan to resume tomorrow–or later this afternoon–with a new sequence.  This is the proposed “gateway to sonnet form,” or one might term it “gateway drug to sonnet form.”  I myself have so termed it .  My plan is to start with freeverse constrained only by being limited to fourteen lines and proceed from there, toward blank verse, and then lyrical couplets and onward from there.

I have not yet decided if it will be one piece continually evolving, or a series of pieces either related in subject, or progressing in a particular direction.  We shall see….

Sonnet: To the Muse

Posted by David Emeron on

O Thou my Muse, reflecteth much Thy flame
That maketh words within me flow like fire,
Abating not, as torrents deadly spill;
Upending doth within me all transpire.

O Thou my Muse, as once I did disclaim–
And though I run a thousand miles away
And lock up all my pen and ink, and still
Without consent, so choose to disobey–

Yet never could I wrest myself, reclaim
My very life, for all was lost… in Thee.
And only once again Thy captive, will
I find such words as once had set me free.

Then with Thy fire tame me, O my Muse.
My quill and my desire are Thine to use.

Permalink

Sonnet XII: Patronage

Posted by David Emeron on

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:

Permalink

Sonnet XI: The Art of War

Posted by David Emeron on

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:

Permalink

Sonnet II | Lyrical Love

Posted by David Emeron on

I never know when she will come or go, but when she appears, there is always such beauty:

Come with me, into the chilled winter mist…
Our hearts breathe, under silent, navy sky,
Frosting moonlight with every passioned sigh.
Let us wander in an evergreen whist,
Where the seduction of heat will insist…
That we create a burn hot as July.
As closer we draw, the stars can’t deny,
Brighter we burn if we torridly kissed.

You reached my soul with your caress of word.
You left me shaken and trembling and weak,
You wrapped me in a haze of devotion
I breathed your love in, not able to speak.

The silence more piercing than what is heard,
I awoke…entwined in silk emotion.

Sonnet X: Labyrinth

Posted by David Emeron on

His shape as pleaseth me, this fiery art
Doth longsome dream to me whilst gripped in sleep.
Shot through with lightning’s fire, doth dream impart
Such thrill: convivial to wake, to weep,

To think it trivial that thence I’ve gone,
That this Oneiran path: forever lost;
Not Morpheus, nor Hypnos’ other Spawn
Reveals’ this darkened place to whence I crost;

For these three Sons shall ‘ever show
A mortal man each labyrinth but once.
So at my waking hour, must I go
Away within imaginings, unless some bunce

Befall me; kindly providence might choose
To call me with such luck as I may use.

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

Permalink

Sonnet IX: Eros Philia Agape

Posted by David Emeron on

As perfect thee, thine image as thine art:
Sublime, as sculpture’s ideations see;
Though mere in thought do such ideals exist,
My hands believe perfection thus to be.

Do not I trust this truth my hands impart
When next they touch conviction wrought of fire:
This certitude of which mine eyes insist
When they confirm withal my hands acquire;

Wherefore our brothers, hath He given heart
That for the other, petuous, will burn;
For she, from whom our brothers’ ribs consist,
Do all of us, this undespoilt, yearn.

For one: with art, we praise His strength thereof;
The other: doth enlist with us His love.

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

Permalink