Hail All,
I’m moving this blog to Blogger as it seems that the format there is better for fitting poetry to the screen. You can see the new site HERE.
Url: http://thesonnetariumii.blogspot.ie/
I’ll just continue posting there following the format here… as if nothing happened.
Regards,
Harry.
No door is open to the moon;
It’s half past midnight and nothing begun.
The world’s exhaling everyone
And stars look on in roving gangs,
And earthworms eat their way through song;
It’s half past midnight and nothing begun.
A mist is lounging on the lawn,
Each blade of grass forgets its rhyme,
And orchestras warm up to dream;
It’s half past midnight and nothing begun.
The cavalry charge has lost its head
And roars a silent battle won,
And hoof-falls down and down to dead;
It’s half past midnight and nothing begun.
And here you sit and flick your tongue,
Your marshy brain a firing squad
That murders evenings on the wing;
It’s half past midnight and nothing begun
In the belly of the eye-licking god-king gone
Half-past midnight and nothing’s begun.
A voice down the ages has loudly proclaimed it
From lectern and mount and graven stone tablet,
How the faithful are free (from excess and sodomy)
When the curse of Free Will is a curious commodity.
We learn how to quote it when very impressionable
And justify means to make it unquashable,
We even make rules in defense of its prosody;
The curse of Free Will is a curious commodity.
Armies on standby will jump to its currency
And spray punctuations to ensure its effluency,
You’d better get off or be a shot in the economy;
The curse of Free Will is a curious commodity.
The world spins around as if to assert it
And only those bent on bad business can hurt it:
Don’t fail to buy back your intellectual property;
The curse of Free Will is a curious commodity.
Follow to where the sun sinks down
And lay among its smoldering folds,
Leave behind the ruined town;
The night is young, the darkness old.
Have the continents as your spread,
Have all their lives and tales untold
To wrap around your weary head;
The night is young, the darkness old.
Dream of new technologies
Which split the stars and make men bold,
But never make apologies;
The night is young, the darkness old.
And when you wake up to the sun
Feeling vulnerable and cold,
Don’t share its light with anyone;
The night is young, the darkness old.
The kyrielle is an old form associated with the troubadours, the European singing poets of the Middle Ages.
In English it is generally a poem of quatrains of iambic tetrameter where the last line of each stanza is a repeated refrain (the refrain can be a phrase, often slightly modified throughout the poem, or just a single repeated word). Common rhyme schemes employed are: aabB, ccbB, ddbB… or… abaB, cbcB, dbdB…
The islands rise about me like
A school of ancient whales, their bulks
Of heather, rock and bundled light
Commune within this sacred site.
The ocean sprays and tides can’t wait
To explore the sanctums of such freight
So wash nearby through wakeful nights,
Communing with this sacred site.
It’s many years since I have trod
These wastelands pregnant with old gods,
But memory circles stone-cold rites,
Communes within its sacred sites.
And if it’s deemed that I should sink
Among these ancients may I drink
Abysmal loss and win their might,
Commune below this sacred site.
Do you often feel stuck for that word or phrase to kick start your poetic endeavors? Fear not! The Random Word Generator (Plus) will give you a noun (or other word type of your choice) to get your creative juices flowing, and you can set it to provide words on a word usage scale from ‘common’ to ‘obscure’.
Check the side menu on the page for similar generators of phrases, sentences, and even paragraphs.
The spray of zest from a sliced lemon,
the kiss of its caustic spring reaction cast in
terrifically high tannins in the taste memory
of the eyes, enlivens zones asleep even
to the piqued tongue. A twist of the uppermost senses,
it needles the innocent nose, knocks taste buds
for six, is sharper than x, uncrosses stemmed
up years to yank tears asunder. You who dwell
beneath these bungling senses bared to
your pits by the ring of this precious metal point,
you have no need to name nor remember:
it is already known, when neglected swings its own blades.
