Tag Archives: Sonnet

Silent Wailing [Sonnet]

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I saw the lips move, but no sound came out.
 The message could not cross from air to brain.
  With reddened face, next an attempted shout,
   but silence suggests words weren't true but feigned.

You'll think me deaf, but I heard other sounds:
 a ticking clock, a fan, and distant horns.
  Maybe, barrier glass made unseen bounds?
   Perhaps, but what bars only sound that mourns?

I know of nothing that would fit the bill,
 but start to suspect nothing stopped the scream
  from reaching me, but rather force of will
   did stick that voiceless face within my dream.

But am I sure I'm having a nightmare?
 I can't say for sure that I'm even here.

Smoky Morning, or: Smoky Mourning [Sonnet]

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A smoky morning signals chilly air
 as those who live with walls of plastic sheet
  gather anything matches set aflare,
   and huddle where skin reddens from the heat.

The toxic kindling of modernity
 can burn so quickly, swirling into ash.
  The search for fine fuel builds fraternity
   as all sift through the varied kinds of trash.

They seek a slow and steady type of fire,
 but poison and explosive burn aren't linked.
  This toxic gas hangs low, where they inspire,
   a deadly vapor which makes this clan extinct.

Smoldering pit, skirted by serene stiffs --
 of what killed them, there remains no whiff.

Ship on the Horizon [Sonnet]

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You see that one ship out on the horizon,
 and feel that unique tang of loneliness.
  There's far, far too much blank sea to thrive in,
   and all the makings for keen ghostliness.

That boat will soon be passing beyond sight,
 and maybe it will falter, maybe sink.
  The sea has created a million plights,
   and hazards there will honor no strict brinks.

In Shakespeare, ships are lost, often as not.
 See: "Tempest," "Merchant," "Pericles,” and so on. 
  Perhaps, you'll say that today isn't so fraught
   with maritime menace and sea demons.

Why more vexed than those who keep ships running?
 'Cause sailors will never, ever, see it coming.

Poet’s World [Sonnet]

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I exited through my old, mundane door,
 and heard a melody so blissful / sweet,
  and saw some colors never seen before.
   That song, those sights, danced me down the street.

A neon breeze both warmed and cooled my face.
 The pleasure wave that I'd once known as sin
  was flaring, with no feelings of disgrace,
   but up my spine a trill of violin. 

Euphoric, I ran 'til I felt lungs burn --
 so fired with energy that my bones hummed --
  But as I felt the wheels begin to turn,
   I realized the depths must remain unplumbed.

Before my druthers, I had to go back.
 To sustain this would give me a heart attack.

Note to Self: A Sonnet

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Don't fill your vaults with glowing, shiny stones.
It's invitation to all cheats and thieves. 
Don't know by mind what you don't know by bone.
Make sure you've lost before you up and grieve.

Then when you grieve, take time to fully feel.
Don't let your mind write stories so untrue
that they turn melancholy like a wheel
that gathers and grows with each turn anew. 

Be kind and true, but not so kind and true
so as to kill with gifts or a mean tongue.
Don't do what would be best that you not do,
and only sing of those heroes unsung.

Oh, every piece of wisdom has its day,
so don't hitch so tight that you're led astray.

Where Live the Idyllic Folk? [Sonnet]

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In rustic cabins far away from here
there live some happy people of the woods.
With ruddy cheeks, they're exemplars of cheer.
They never visit cities selling goods.
They live on what the forest can render,
and that's not so much, but it is enough.
They tune themselves to nature's vast splendor.
In cold, they don skins, but when hot, go buff.

Or, perhaps, I lie, and no such people
exist in this world or any other.
And woods people fuss on matters, fecal --
just like you, I, and all our grandmothers.

These cheery, simple woods folk must exist,
if only in the mind of this fantasist.

Winter Days [Sonnet]

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My winter days are vaguely seen from here,
but I cannot yet see the very end:
only the plain that is the sum of fears,
a sum that only living on transcends.

The peek I take looks like my days back then.
It's not so Batman noir as I've been told. 
My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen.
The act of living life is growing bold. 

In dreams, that dreadful hour calls to me,
and I feign sleep and turn my back on Death.
If he can't be seen, maybe he can't lead,
and I can soldier on with my next breath.

My focus shifts to now; I find my Zen.
It's good to gasp every now -n- again.

Bone Cold [Blank Verse Sonnet]

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From a stove-heated room, the snow brightens
one's mind with hope that all will be made clean,
but cleanliness is next to nothingness
and nothingness is next to loneliness.
From inside, snow is silencing and light.
It's fine and shifts like sand in desert dunes.
It's silent like the depths of a cabin
at midnight on the prairie before time.

From outside, snow saps all of one's resolve,
and makes one wish to flee the purity
it pretends to generate all around.
The cold, it bites like a full-body vice.

The feet go numb, but brains... they fire wildly --
they shake one awake, but dare one to sleep.

BOOK REVIEW: The American Sonnet ed. by Dora Malech & Laura Smith

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The American Sonnet: An Anthology of Poems and EssaysThe American Sonnet: An Anthology of Poems and Essays by Dora Malech
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

Amazon.in Page

Release date: January 12, 2023

The first one-third of this book is an anthology of sonnets by American poets that highlight some of the characteristics of form and content that evolved in America. Therefore, one shouldn’t expect these to all be fourteen lines of iambic pentameter. America is the land of Whitman, and discomfort with strict rules and constraining requirements along with a desire to etch one’s individuality and voice into all activities is part of what makes a thing American. It’s an enchanting and suitably diverse (also an inherently American requirement) selection of poems, and I think all poetry readers would enjoy reading it. Included among the almost 100 poets are: Walt Whitman, Phillis Wheatley, Natasha Trethewey, Robert Frost, Langston Hughes, Gwendolyn Brooks, Agha Shahid Ali, Claude McKay, Edna St. Vincent Millay, e.e. cummings, Countee Cullen, Natalie Diaz, Emma Lazarus, Terrance Hayes, Muriel Rukeyser, Sylvia Plath, James Wright, Gertrude Stein, Paul Lawrence Dunbar, Ralph Waldo Emerson, and Lucille Clifton. The poets run the gamut from the Colonial Era to present-day heavyweights, and their works approach the sonnet from perfectly conventionally to wildly experimentally.

The remainder of the book is a collection of short essays that discuss various aspects of the sonnet in America. While the editors don’t explicitly group the essays, I would put them in three baskets. First, there are those essays that examine the work of a particular poet and discuss that artist’s influence on the sonnet. Second, some of the essays examine sonnets through the lens of a particular demographic and investigate how poets of that demographic have influenced, been influenced by, or modified the sonnet, be it those of a particular race, sexual identity, place on the autistic spectrum, etc. Third, most of the other essays explore technical aspects such as line length, rhyme schemes, metering, etc.

As I mentioned, I believe poetry readers will enjoy the selection of poems anthologized, herein. The essays are another matter. They are much more of a mixed bag for poets and poetry readers and are more geared toward other scholars. That is to say, some of them are both interesting and useful for poets and poetry readers, but others will probably not be of much interest to the non-academic reader. While the essays are brief and most are quite readable, a number of them either delve into arcane matters or tumble so deeply down the rabbit hole of wokeness that it’s hard to grasp what the author’s point is (or whether he or she has one.)

If you enjoy poetry and are interested in the American influence on the sonnet, this book is well worth reading – at least the poems and a selection of the essays.


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Schrödinger’s Isle [Blank Verse Sonnet]

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The island's rocky columns rise upward.
Its gray and green was tiny, but now looms.
A giant jutting rock that stands on high,
and shades the white sand beach and coral sea.

This island will be home from now 'til doom.
One's gratitude for fists of sand first swells,
but it will crash in time with tedium.
Could a sea death beat solitary life?

One lives and dies by coconut water --
day after day - week after week,
and dreams of company and comfort food,
while knowing this is hell and paradise.

What prison is this island - place unknown -
that like Schrödinger's box shrouds life & death?