pearls

Afterthought 910—Sonnet -5

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/17
 
His mourning by the night's black prison walled
with complications, over which scars traced
the days of years authorities erased
from ghosts of former prisoners, forestalled
just long enough to crack into, he crawled
on hands and knees through poisoned blood encased
in scab.  His goddess crept inside him, chaste
as moonlight, cold as beds where they fell sprawled.

No mention of him made it to the news,
no recognition of the wave of grief,
depression, pain and shame in which he drowned
his solitude. His child was never found.
Such miracles are killed by unbelief
conceived in doubt. Whom he loves, he must lose.
 
 
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Afterthought 908—Sonnet -4

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/16
 
The hell of every death she claims: she died
inside her mother's void, then died at birth 
without a cry, then every step on earth
died yet again. She took vows as a bride
and died. She died in every move she tried
to make. Be it deluge, be it dearth,
she died. She died until it wasn't worth
her dying further, death to her denied.
 
No autopsy was sought, no inquest called.
No funeral rites were held. No gravestone marks
the hillside where her body last was placed
facedown, a scrap of fast-decaying waste.
Run away, far off her dog still barks
his mourning, by the night's black prison walled.
 
 
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Afterthought 903—Sonnet -2

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/13

A poem or two here — every now and then
I'll leave a poem for you here. You won't know
quite what to make of it. Let's act as though
we mean it this time any more than when
 
it mattered. Come, let's give ourselves to men
as stiff as sonnets lined up row by row.
Let's play the game. Then when you tell me, "Go
away" again, let's throw away my pen.
 
How many have I written every day
since then, when I first heard that casting call
and thought it something suited to my taste
and talent. To my love. Ah, waste, foul waste,
the only thing one gets from giving all,
so as I said, I don't expect to stay.


 

Afterthought 901—Sonnet -1

Posted in nothing special, sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2016/02/12

This won't be how my word will be reborn 
like yours, all echo, pieces we'll forget, 
as randomly arranged as when we met 
like moonlight let loose on that autumn's morn. 

Like those, no doubt these too will earn your scorn — 
these touches you won't want, dreams you won't let 
act real, as real as poetry, yet . . . yet 
I'll hope this page won't get discarded torn. 

So let's just happen crossing paths again, 
a drink or two, perhaps enjoy a dance 
together, nothing one need bother keep. 
As you yourself have said, my talk is cheap — 
lines strung together from mere circumstance, 
a poem or two here, every now and then.


 
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Waving Gesture

Posted in sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2014/04/02
 

See, what get said against what's said, gets meant
against what's meant, gets known against what's known.
Like, journeys never get there on their own,
but rather make it sent against what's sent
as though bound for an unknown continent—
you'll not know what it takes to live alone
until you've gone against yourself, get shown
your own departure leaving where it went.
So listen, you're not coming home.  You're lost
and only need an open bed to stay
until you realize I'm your worst mistake.
Yeah right. Go on, go drifting on your lake
pretending you'll arrive somewhere someday
without once having traced the lines I crossed.
 
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Opening Gesture

Posted in sonnet, sonnet cycle by maggie on 2014/04/01
 

Wrapped in last night's visions, I set out
to find the one who'll choose to be my child,
for I have seen him, icy eyes as wild
as winter's passion, dark breath hot as drought
as if created in love's fiercest shout
before the moment died. From dream exiled
to settle for this morning's work beguiled,
I let cold winds this mother's prayers reroute.
I don't believe some casual accident
would have imagination strange enough
to fool some god at lending me his seed
for nothing more than someone who could bleed
as much as I can bleed. Let's call his bluff,
see what gets said against what's said gets meant.
 
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Opening Gesture — Notes

Posted in notes by maggie on 2014/04/01
 
             
                                                                                                                                                                    Cutting a swath
                                                                                                                                                                    through thick-dewed grass,
                                                                                                                                                                    I set out.
                                                                                                                                                                                                 — Kifu

My pretext for the start of this new sonnet cycle is a death poem by a Japanese poet who passed in Autumn 1898. Its sentiment and its timing give a perfect setting for this journey on which I myself set out — a new birth created out of a death.

How fitting that this being a Tuesday, according to the Tuesday tradition at a poetry website I’ve frequented through past Aprils (and often during the other eleven months each year), that website prompts us to launch this year’s Poetry Month with one or both of two themes: starting and ending. In the spirit of Kifu, I choose both themes.

Which fits well with the cycle I plan: my starting line in today’s sonnet will be my final line in the sonnet I’ll write this coming April 30, like how I did for a 100-sonnet sequence a portion of which I used to start this poetry blog. Like how I plan to circle back around in my theme, now and at the close, and throughout this month.

As I did last April (Far Cry, posted privately for close friends) and the previous April (An Hour Unwound, partially public) and the previous April (entire cycle posted public elsewhere), this cycle (which I plan to post openly here) will consist of 30 Petrarchan sonnets, each with first line given by the final line of the preceding sonnet. No rhyme sets will be repeated, other than via sharing of the last line of one sonnet with the first line of the next.

As with those previous April cycles, each day during this month I will draft the next sonnet in the cycle, reflecting the prompt given by the poetry website I’d used those past years. Obviously, I don’t know what tomorrow’s prompt will be when I draft today’s sonnet. That affects how I need to work at fitting a whole month of unknown future prompts into a single cohesive and coherent overall theme. More immediately evident, I’ll be writing the final line of each day’s sonnet before I know the next day’s prompt, yet will do my best to make each transition work as smoothly as if I’d known all prompts all along.

In solidarity with a friend whose work was arbitrarily and unfairly censored by the website where I used to post these April cycles, I will abstain from posting any further of my own work there, as also do I not imply any endorsement by once again relying on that website’s prompts during this month. I no longer even read any of the writing that website does choose to carry — when good writing is unjustly censored, one cannot trust what is displayed.

As has been the case for all of my poetry since November 2006, this poetry will be written in the light and love I found in one who was my closest friend. As has been the case for everything I’ve ever said and written and desired, any of the bad that is in any of this will not be about her or for her. But as has had to be, as was chosen and demanded, all of the vast good I could say and wish to write of her must remain silent, unwanted and ignored. So although written in my moonlight as always, nothing here will have anything to say of that.

So then, starting this cycle as I’ll be ending it, with Kifu singing background for me—

                                                   Wrapped in last night’s visions, I set out…

And I’ll reserve what I’ll be writing this all “about” until the closing sestet of my 30th sonnet. On with drafting this first sonnet of this April’s turn.

First Draft of my opening sonnet is now complete. I’m not displeased with it enough to start over from scratch, so I have my first steps decided for me. After some editing and some private notes and some more editing, I’ll post here.

As will be my custom throughout this month, I will keep this post open, editing it continuously as I draft and edit each sonnet.


 
 
 

— remembering Sara

 

Protected: Christmas Sonnet 2012

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/12/25

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Sonnet 45

Posted in quatorzain by maggie on 2012/12/12
Sonnet 45
 
I'll always kiss the moment when we crossed 
the dreams we keep, the thoughts we find around, 
the fantasies we want, the pasts we lost, 
the songs we sing, the ways our giggles sound, 

the changes we believe, the moves we dance, 
the smiles we wake up to, the fears we hide, 
the time we waste together, tears we chance, 
and all the words we share, the love inside. 

And may we always cross! May every touch 
that reaches out from you be met by mine 
as though expecting you'd expect as much. 

Then let us meet each crossing with a kiss. 
Coincidence like ours must be design 
intending to create such love as this.

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