Tag Archives: Writing

I do not have…

Posted by David Emeron on

…writer’s block, nor stage fright, for that matter.  I am not quite sure why that is, but still, sometimes it is difficult to bring myself to keep to my schedule.   Particularly now.  I know I could, for example use one of my developed techniques to write several sonnets in the next hour or two; but I can already tell, I am not going to.  I think tomorrow, I will do so.

Lately, I think I have have written a series of more serious and more heartfelt sonnets, and these do not necessarily need to be the norm.   When I started this project, I made a joke about not writing sonnets about trivial matters, still, there is something between writing about one’s sunburn during one’s vacation (in Majorca, I have always maintained) and writing a nice-sounding sonnet about a less trivial but still not a soul deafeningly deep matter.   I thought nothing of doing this at first, as I mentioned.  Still, I think I have been having what a dear friend of mine would call “a case of the blues.”  And I am disinclined to write about this case for the reason above.

Sometimes one gets to a point where one does not wish to delve.  I am after all, more–much more–a musician than a writer of any kind.  And even though music is more difficult than writing–as is practically every field of human endeavour–in the grand scheme of things, music comes rather more easy to me than writing.  So to compose a sonnet that sounds nice the subject of which is rather vague or even cryptic, is not a difficult thing to accomplish.  Still I do feel much better now that I “verbalise” this fact.

I can write, perhaps because of whatever musical, or one might say: “sound related senses,” I may posses, something rather quickly.  Some of these sonnets have ended up being quite nice to my ears; and, as often happens in such a case, capriciousness gives way to depth as one writes, arranges, and rearranges words in such an endeavour.  Sometimes of course the result may…  sound better than it means, or sound more clearly than its meaning is clear.  Still, more often than not, perhaps, these are nearly indistinguishable from those into which I invest quite a lot of thought and emotion and research of one kind or another.

Quite often, a very deeply held feeling can also roll off the pen, even when one is using a particularly difficult form.  Although my general “policy,” as it were, has always been to let the text dictate the best form to use.  I have very many to chose from, in sonnet writing.  When one realises there are:

  1. Shakespearean (abab,cdcd,efef,gg)
  2. Reverse Shakespearean (aa, bcbc, dede, fgfg)
  3. Interlocking Shakespearean (abab, cdcd, dede, fg — fg abab, cdcd, efef)
  4. Italian (1221, 1221, 6*{AB} | {ABC} (six final lines of two or three ephemerals which can vary in almost any combination))
  5. Reverse Italian: 1221, 2112, AA 4* {BA} | {BC} (two or three rhymes but beginning with a couplet.
  6. Spenserian (a1a1, 1212, 2323, bb)
  7. Reverse Spenserian (2121, 3232, 4343, [14][14])   one of my favourites.
  8. Emeronian (a1a2, b1b2, c1c2, [d1][d2])
  9. Reverse Emeronian (1a2a, 1b2b, 1c2c, [1d][2d])   another favourite.
  10. Sequential (1234, 1234, 1234, [12][34]) another invention
  11. unnamed (aa1a, bb1b, cc1c, [1d][1d])
  12. Canopian ([a-a]c[b-b]c, [d-d]f[e-e]f, [g-g]1[h-h]1, [j-j]1) extrapolation from “Roddenberry’s Couplet.”
  13. Unlucky ( ????????????? )

It is easy to conceive of the appropriate form to use given the idea one wishes to express.  So I must now pledge to continue in this way tomorrow wherein It may be easier to accomplish after some rest. : )

There Comes A Time | My Own Worst Enemies

Posted by David Emeron on

Today, I find myself feeling very sad.  Although I should say straight away that it has nothing to do with the sadness I see here.  Completely unrelated, is it.  But how you feel, or at least what you write about how you feel, is how I feel.  Just at this time.  Not always.  I have no good reason for it.  But I felt it earlier, and felt comforted to see you.

While you have been away, I have been rather ill (nothing serious, just a protracted stubborn cold which has “taken out” for weeks, much younger and stronger men than I)  It put me quite behind in my sonnet writing.  And now I have this strange feeling.  This.  Having descended over me.  I have no good reason for it.  But one or two difficult correspondences led me there, I think.

I do not presume anything regarding the way you, nor anyone else, might feel.  I do know that sometimes…   perhaps it is because I am not of the true “cyber” generation…  that I feel remote… distant…  helpless…  and perhaps also unable to comfort those who feel as I do.

I merely began writing a sonnet tonight, or rather, this morning, inspired by those correspondences.   Something regarding humility.  These were not of great consequence–these emails back and forth:  A precocious young man and a vexing but adamantly pursued area of interest; A young lady concerned with matters of faith–and my odd relationship with such matters;  A writers’ group whose kind invitation I nonetheless feel I must decline.  A few other such things…  So that now I feel myself quite melancholy.  Quite at “sixes and sevens,” as it were.

Yesterday, I found myself, finally well enough to get back to writing and so I spent a very enjoyable evening answering comments.  By no means have I gotten to the end of them, but I did make a considerable dent in them.  Still, as the night wore on, I felt I was perhaps delaying my actual work by engaging in this much more enjoyable and carefree activity.

And today, I found, quite by accident, a number of emails waiting for me–they were in the wrong place and so I might have missed them altogether, as they were sent to the address I have which is set up to collect automatic responses and such other annoyances that blogging generates–and stubbornly refuse to be turned off.  I believe I have gone a good deal further in see that people find and use the correct public email when they wish to send me some correspondence which, for what ever reason, they prefer not to appear on the blogoshpere; but I have found that no matter how technically adept one might be, it can sometimes be most difficult to ferret out such things.  Particularly on wordpress.com where one has no control over the code nor any database access.

In any case, In answering comments yesterday, I came upon a number of yours which of course were “404” if I tried to respond to them.  Still that led me to your gravatar link and I noticed there was a new image there… haunting and somehow befitting of your new site.  And then this morning, not long ago, I found your nickname among the handful of new “follows” that had come along in the last hours.

I felt happy to see someone familiar, although clearly I was well on my way to feeling most unhappy.  But following the link to your new site, I found your latest work to somehow fit my melancholy.

There are doubtless many grammatical errors and omissions in the above, however, in all sincerity, I truly do feel a bit too melancholy to go back through it all.  I will however quote this in my “reflections” sub-blog, and perhaps I will correct it later if and when the mood comes upon me.

There comes a time,

when all strength is lost.

When efforts collapse,

and people pay a cost…

Read the rest here:

Sonnet: A.D. 1984

Posted by David Emeron on

Why are all the Orwell jokes forsworn?
I think forgetting these is quite a sin.
I thought I’d see Big Brother T-Shirts worn;
And parties serving casks of Vict’ry Gin.

So, why is there not one Big Brother sign;
Nor pundits blath’ring on in TV Spots;
Comparing economical design;
Nor tales told of recent commie plots?

Perhaps the joke is just too cheap a shot;
That no-one of importance really heads.
Or maybe it’s that everyone forgot;
Er maybe’ts them what hardly never reads.

Whatever’s causing all (or none) of this.
I’m thinking what a wild time we’ll miss.

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Early this afternoon…

Posted by David Emeron on

…I began feeling a bit under the weather.  And in a few minutes, I will settle down into my bed with my laptop and something fizzy to soothe my throat, and write the answer to Will Shakespeare’s sonnet II; which prompt, I have already posted.  I do like doing these; however, now I have two sequences that are essentially notes to myself.  I’m not sure how to characterise that.

Also: I, of late, have been thinking I should number all my sonnets.  I am not sure the numbering system I should use, however.  There are the short sequences and there should be some method for making them sequential whether or not I add to them later or not.  Still… that type of enumeration, in and of itself, might be confusing as well.  Perhaps I should just use plain sequential numbers and keep things in date order.  That, or I could use two different systems depending on what type of cataloguing I, or another reader, might like to do.

“Kirkpatrick” type numbers and perhaps “Shorto” (rather than “Longo“) numbers.  This is a reference to Domenico Scarlatti, whose sonatas have three different numbering systems, mostly rather confusing, with Kirkpatrick being the most used–and which puts Scarlatti’s sonatas in sequential order by date as well as can be done.

Regarding my sonnets, these ‘K’ numbers would be chronological simply as: K1, K2, K3, &c.

The ‘S’ numbers would be Chronological as S1, S2, S3, &c; except where sequences are involved, I would then, perhaps, note the place where sonnet number one of a sequence first appears (whether it is out of order or not) and then, for example:

If S2 marks the first of a sequence, it will be numbered S2.1, and the next in the sequence would be S2.2, S2.3, &c, (all the way up to S2.154 or more if necessary!)  These would not indicate very well how many sonnets in total there might be, but the ‘K’ numbers would be for that purpose.

I might even try ‘P’ numbers also, for “Petrucci,” or whatever type of pasta the third system for classifying Scarlatti’s sonatas is named; which might group all sonnets by subject, perhaps in a similar way as the ‘S’ numbers.  Very well… I looked it up, it is, in fact, “Pestelli.” Sounds delicious, perhaps tossed with seafood and Alfredo sauce.  This is making me hungry.  “Feed a cold,” do they say, after all.

This would make the mnemonic for these three systems fairly straight forward.  If ‘K’ numbers are simple enumerators, and ‘S’ numbers are sequence based, and ‘P’ numbers are subject related; then we might say “Count, Sequence, Passion,” which would help one remember which is which:  K for count (or Kount), ‘S’ for sequence, and ‘P’ for passion (hence subject).

I suppose I could also use the unique post id that wordpress provides.  However, this, I have found does not exist on every screen wherein one might want or need it.

I could, of course, leave such enumeration to posterity, but I find myself needing and wanting such numbers now, for a variety of reasons.

Another Example of Embedded Haiku

Posted by David Emeron on

Whatever Thy Perfection Doth Require

I close my longing eyes; envisage thee;
Reflection manifesting not mine hands;

Imprisoned lightning, countenanced with fire;
Shot through, withal, mine every wish commands’.
Extremity, thy tapered waist’s degree;

Impossible perhaps, if not sublime;
And yet, sublime, thy perfect form–admire
This hourglass, although confoundeth time.

Nor could reflected shadowing foresee
Such helplessness within, as now I feel;
Restrained, regarding mine embraced desire

Ensnaring; captor, caught without appeal;
This weal of metaphor thy warder barred;
Imprisonment inspired such a guard.

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

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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!