Tag Archives: Sonnet

Sonnet: Faith

Posted by David Emeron on

My Lord, what is this folly, curse or prize
That Thou hast given to this child of Thine;
Perhaps, an answer to a prayer of mine;
Perhaps, an irony which satisfies

My very heart? Yet should I emphasize
The very art–particularly fine–
With which I am denied that sweetest wine:
That wish come true? If Thou wert truly wise,

Or simply knew what works of Thine were done,
I cannot but believe that gift would be
A sweetly kind and patronizing one;
Demanding nothing very real from me.
Considering the works I’ve done for Thee,
Couldst not Thou simply deign to set me free?

Sonnet: Safe

Posted by David Emeron on

Is it starlight–doth shimmer down from sky,
Bereft of cloud, that doth pretend such grace?
And is it moonlight, floating down, as show
She doth, configuration’s subtle face–

As though, to cover all, she doth thereby
Intrude, and douse these tiny candles–cool,
As her reflection, ripples undergo,
With counter-sparkle in a quiet pool?

Is it lamplight–that doth she overfly
From out a window, for its calm, perform?
Or is it firelight, setting us aglow,
For which she doth abound, surrounding warm?

Her hand, doth she, Romantic, try her charm
Protecting us from storm, and so from harm.

Sonnet: Powerless

Posted by David Emeron on

Once spoken, sweet perfection cannot wane
Before the fleeting hour, nor the year;
The truth is stronger still than all the fear
Which once kept vigil over our domain.

Once felt, the spoken truth is carved at last
In virtue’s medium the truth requires:
The stone or clay perfection’s gift inspires;
The whole of this, our truth, is thus so vast.

Once heard, such music cannot be denied,
For, doing so would be a travesty,
And even if such truth is made to hide,
The trueness of it speaks in majesty.

Once touched, I knew the many years would melt,
So powerless to curb the art we felt.

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Sonnet: Thieves

Posted by David Emeron on

Through turns and twists, an endless beat, we ran;
I’d spurn the mists, descend to meet with thee.
We’d turn a bend upon a stone, and we
Would earn an end, and on our own, began.

But for a while–and never knowing when–
Once more to smile, then time to go, it was.
Through turns, we twist, an endless beat, and us
Returned, we list, pretend, and meet again.

You’d wrest some rest from lies and flight, and stole
From me some paradise, not quite forlorn.
I took, from you, a measure of that sworn
A garden, too. You stole no treasure, whole;
But gave us shrift, though magical and brief.
Forgiveness gifts me gratitude, my thief!

All this writing of reverse…

Posted by David Emeron on

…Spenserians, I have finally (I think) ended the male body series with number ten, the last of which is a more or less standard Spenserian.

And, I believe perhaps, this is the one that causes me the most embarrassment.  I found myself blushing as I wrote this one–quite a comical picture, I may assure you.

To be sure, this was very definitely not the most embarrassing moment I have felt during this sonnet project.  I believe I have never been so embarrassed in my entire life as while writing the sequence which idolised me, myself, from the eyes and words of my sweet wife.  That was by far less theoretical, and hence, much, much more embarrassing.

Regarding the ending of the series, I say “I think” it is the last one in the series, because…  well… one never knows.  Embarrassing or not, it really is quite an intriguing subject, and does, from time to time, elicit moments of curiosity and reflection.

Even in cultures wherein such things were known quite openly to be commonplace, as in Ancient Rome, for example, there was still a bit of embarrassment among ordinary men regarding the subject.  Such things needed to be kept in proper perspective, after all!  Among the vast numbers of men–the great majority of which had no degree of unusual inclination or nature–even given that it might have been more common a subject at such times–such things would have been met with reticence, particularly when in the case of admitting such things personally. This kind of reticence spans all ages of the world, as far as I am able to discern, and even seems to be woven deep within our DNA perhaps, along with such inclinations as and of which we are capable.

And, of course, I am not speaking, or rather writing, of any of us less usual, such as today might be so labelled as one type or another.  Such people also were well known to those  as in my example of Ancient Rome.  Known and well understood, much as they are today, quite in contrast to the nature of the vast majority of us so glossed over, or perhaps, to re-purpose a common term of deconstruction: “marginalised.”

And…  I believe I have now said much more than I had at first intended, and certainly, even by Roman standards, far too much!!

Sonnet: Good Intentions

Posted by David Emeron on

The face, within the mirror, shan’t display
The visage of a monster? Nay; but, who
Might set out to discover what is true;
Not planning to destroy; nor ever stray

From good. His mild manner could allay,
And ever would his good intent undo,
Near any fear or doubt he’d not renew
His Godly pledge; and never disobey.

He,  to the mirror, says: “I shan’t forget
That I, this day, shall take this world, unclean,
And, of it, make a better place.”  Foretell
Ye; face with horror; watch his silhouette
Perform those actions sure to bring, unseen,
Into reality, the road to Hell.

Sonnet: My Friend

Posted by David Emeron on

When hope’s last touch had, ever weary, left;
And never, solace opened up her arms;
Sweet dreams pervading comfort had been reft;
And fertile life had quitted of her charms.

Life, seeming ended, ever lingered on;
And pity choked her ever-ringing word.
It seemed as though I were a passing pawn
Unheeding of all joy and never heard.

When panic reared his dreaded mask, I had
To desperately seek to task this ache.
Instead, you offered friendship. (I was glad
To take whatever kindness I could take.)

Though first, it seemed your offering was small,
What magic, that you gave a gift at all!

  • One more for Jena:
    Though never would a hundred
    Ever be enough.