You know I am not religious, but doesn't mean I can't pray. I am praying for him now. For all of you. For the new puppy. Yes, so chilling but I'm glad you wrote this.
The specifics of the things left behind--the bareness of the room, a pillow without a pillowcase, and the items from an active life left behind. So nicely done, Tod!
and the markers stacked like little logs of lumber,
her book open to a picture of a unicorn
with stars and streamers
and a banner across the top that says
Believe.
(Believe should be in italics but I am not able to format it that way. I wrote this as a prose poem a while ago and just adapted it for today's prompt.)
To me there has to be a relationship between sound and silence in a sonnet and I think the sound/silence in this is beautiful, Polly. You've chosen the line breaks perfectly so there's a lovely rhythm and flow. And you've given us a striking visual image of Alice as well.
From photos I've seen, (Toronto), you're worse off smokewise. Here, locally, the only fires (wheat stubble) up to now were snuffed out quickly. But we're getting much more humidity now, which pushes the effective heat up well past 40°C most afternoons. Air humidity but no rain.
Have never seen it like this. It's been days now. Really hits home what it must be like for people, animals, plants, etc. who are actually caught up in it. Our Common Future.
Smoke has become the weather forecast this July—I’m focused on a hummingbird and wishing I could apologize to him for being human and responsible for the mess.
Only a botanist could love this flower, yet you, a detective, love this flower all the same. Or I think you do, at least you think about your flower all the time. That's the nature of love, isn't it?
Such a great description of your brother! "the soundtrack of an anti-serenity prayer" and refusing to accept what he cannot change. Sounds like a lot of people, actually!
And I found, almost without fail, that if a family has 4 or more children, one of them is always that problem sibling, who just never achieved ease in his or her own skin.
I actually prepared a slew of these -- fun exercise! And loved yours Mary.
At the time he was dealing with a retinal detachment, which happens to many people for no certain reason, but he was absolutely obsessed with trying to figure out why it was happening to him, specifically. He ended up calling his 90 year old biological father, who was clearly in Alzheimer’s, and had no recollection of even his existence.
There was no treatment that would be different depending on “how he got it” but he was absolutely obsessed with trying to figure it out. But somehow, I seemed to get through to him about the pointlessness of finding a cause and the necessity of moving forward. One brief conversation where I thought I might have broken through.
Several months later, convinced that his would endure too much suffering (the eye surgeon was gobsmacked - he needed a very routine operation) my brother committed suicide. He was 57.
It wasn’t about his eyes. It was about his inability to find anything resembling serenity in his own brain for his entire life.
Your brother comes to life in this, Mark. So many great descriptors...the anti-serenity prayer, the rearview mirror. So much of what I write comes is rooted in the mystery of family.
What fun, Mary! Loved your sonnet -- the form really does change how we attend to the story. I love what little I've read of Diane Seuss' poetry. Hers inspired this so it is untitled.
She and the car rolled silently to the side of the road
Black and white cows munching their lunch and looking at the car without curiosity
What must they have seen that they were bored with these visitors?
It's true she and Sadie attracted more attention in bygone days, wistful
Glances, lust hanging in the air like glimmered dust, as they streaked
Down the road, a red comet set on dramatics and starry encounters
Lunch seemed like a delightful idea so she got out the sandwich from the bag
The soda from the cooler, its ice on her skin pleasant in the heat
Not enough touch, she moaned to all who would listen.
The caress, the kiss, lips heat on neck's nape
Unexpected cold from a martini'd tongue on bare thigh
Now it was just her and Sadie, rust and bolts and wire, the both of them
And their unexcited hosts on a hot summer day nearing the end of all their lives
She waved to the cows, who honored her with blinks before turning for the creek
It is fun to name a car. And characters in a story. Defines them so much. Glad you liked the martini line. The whole poem is a kind of ode to a dearly beloved, now-gone friend who introduced me to the joys of a martini and also bemoaned the loss of touch.
"I only have three more lines..." "the feeling it gives me when I pour in my cream" So funny! We all need a coffee machine like this - and a friend like yours who just wants to give it away!
The story is more complicated and wouldn't fit in 14 lines, but basically my friend was having a great time with her old pal, her BFF, and they splurged on these coffee makers. After spending a whole week together, there was some bullshit behavior from the friend, so bad that it literally ended the long friendship. She really just couldn't stand the sight of the coffee maker!
You know what? I think I would've kept it! But to each their own. I do think of my friend every time I make coffee!
Thank you Mary. The structure just appeared, and definitely made the construction more fun and kind of weirdly easier.
Sadly, my original formatting didn't translate here to Substack; in mine, lines 8-14 slid to the right and ended on an even right margin so the whole thing looked like a drunk diamond.
This is one I want to pin on my wall. The ups and downs, the worth/insignificance, the "switchback trail of thornflowers" (and accompanying visual switchback of the lines), the determination then hesitation. Thank you for this.
Thank you for the kind words. It was fun (when I make myself do Mary's prompts they always are, and yet....so rarely do I. A clue for sure as to exactly how autobiographical the sonnet is.)
My imposing some structural rules on myself actually made it kind of easier and much more fun.
Still, I'd be reluctant to put this one on my wall, as it generally cuts me, its author, too much slack. My life's writing output is not insignificant, but it'd be a lot more weighty if I hadn't let myself get away with so many things. "but wait, is this that thing?" is something I've too often answered with "Uh, sure, why not. Why shouldn't it be?" and so I'm left with less than I'd hoped, intended or striven for.
But I do thank you, and I'm thrilled it might inspire anyone in any way.
You are very welcome. I agree writing constraints can be helpful. But language itself is always a constraint of some kind, isn't it. And I suppose the feeling of being “left with less than we'd hoped, intended, or striven for" is, in a way, what keeps us (or some of us at least) hoping, intending, striving.
I accept that gratefully, even if I go hard on myself for low output at times, I can't argue that some writing is better than none at all. If i were to stop hoping, intending, and striving, I'd be less than I am.
Regarding your excellent point about language being a constraint of sorts; I recently read a memoir of David Milch, a past mentor of mine, and his thoughts on language as a way we not only define ourselves and our communities, but also as a way we govern ourselves and our communities spoke to me. He was talking specifically about the importance of language in settings where there is no law (Deadwood South Dakota, circa 1876, in this case).
But I guess we should expect such heightened emphasis on language from a guy who wrote his TV Series in Iambic Pentameter.
Hi again Fred. Agree that some writing is always better than none at all! I have not been much of a tv person for most of my adult life (hope it's okay to admit that to a tv person!), so I had to look up David Milch. I see he did NYPD Blue (which I have seen some of), but I was not aware of the Deadwood series. Just found an article by him on LitHub and my local library has the memoir. I have some background in linguistics and ethnomusicology where the topics of how language and music govern us comes up fairly regularly, so am interested in what he has to say. I am of the understanding that iambic pentameter is a pretty regular feature of ordinary English, or at least may be perceived as such since English is a stress-timed language, so maybe he was working with that idea (?). Looking forward to following up and seeing what he has to say. Thanks for the reference.
without getting defensive, I would say objectively that he is not your typical TV person. He's deeply intellectual, spiritual, and a recovered addict with debilitating OCD. His mentor and surrogate father was Poet/novelist Robert Penn Warren of Pulitzer fame. So David's spin on writing is pretty different from most highly successful writer creators. Deadwood and John from Cincinnati are, in my view, masterworks of storytelling craft. But even if you don't look into the shows, the memoir is remarkable, not least because he is currently deep into severe Alzheimer's dementia, and was in there when writing the memoir, so relied on his wife and children who had documented the past few decades of his creative process and work. The Memoir is called Life's Work and I cannot recommend it highly enough. The two classes I took with him in 2001 and 2007 were life altering and are legendary withing the Writers Guild of America West archives.
So, when someone says rules, I say no rules. When someone (i.e., mary g.) says no rules, I say rules. Annie Mary Quite Contrary here with a shitty first (twelfth maybe?) draft--okay, let's say experiment. But I did try to follow a couple more of the Shakespeare sonnet rules: 10 syllables each line; 3 quatrains and a rhyming couplet. I did and did not follow the prescribed rhyming pattern, meaning I used some near rhymes--I know Mark will be cringing. The third stanza's got a doozy. :) Anyway, thanks for bearing with. (Tried to separate the stanzas but Shakespeare won't let me.)
Fourteen Lines
Lines our mothers strung to pin our clothes on
Lines our fathers cast to reel in stories
Lines we scribbled dutifully in crayon
Lines graced round our necks to ease our worries
Lines we broke to find a way to freedom
Transgress the rules, come full into our own
Lines that loved our footfalls when we walked them
Thanks, John. So nice of you to pick out a line you liked (just as you did last week). That's what I was especially working toward--just one or two lines that might have some resonance through sound, rhythm, grammar, syntax, image, something like that (kind of like the one photo out of 100 idea, I guess). Nice of you to, um, "catch" what I was aiming for.
In the desert, dreams should be shallow until like a stream they merge with another, plunge into a canyon, and are briefly deep and swift only to disappear into the ground to wander unseen and undisturbed for centuries.
When you are not dreaming, your desert thoughts will be as sharp and clear as the air.
You will see mountains a hundred miles away slice the sky while the edge of the stone at your foot will be sharp enough to shave off any callous.
There are edges everywhere which is a comfort because a dry world with sharp edges is paradoxically easy to navigate.
In the desert, you know your boundaries and vulnerabilities, so you are careful, carrying water, wearing a hat against the sun and boots against the snakes.
You will be aware of the moment and take nothing as given.
Not that there aren’t gardens. There are.
The fleeting –plants that rise up and get their business done quickly in the brief moments when conditions are right, sometimes just a few hours or days in a year or more.
Don’t dream of those gardens. Let them surprise you. Once you see them, you carry them with you forever, as promises and comfort.
The enduring – a lone tree that found water deep below and in its shelter harbors grasses and sedges and you when you need a respite from the sun.
These gardens are real, not dreams. Remember them.
I am not a huge fan of nature poetry, personally (and I hope it's okay if I classify your poem as such?), but this is one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever read. I love the way you've contrasted various states of mind with various contrasts in the desert. A pleasure to read.
Dear Friends thank you for you kindnesses and best wishes last week.
For now his ashes wash north in the Deschutes, until meeting the Columbia,
Where they will turn west, following Lewis and Clark’s path to the sea.
An email from my brother, written from the depths of grief,
Tells of the pantry stocked with psilocybin mushrooms,
backpacks with sundry gear and nicotine gum, he never smoked.
One bed with a pillow but no pillowcase, a chair and table with a computer.
That’s it. All the lightbulbs changed to red, and the windows papered off.
Imagine a kitchen sink, a bathroom never cleaned, never.
But several competitive bicycles and thirty spare tires, tools to fix things in the garage.
A new pair of downhill skis and boots, unused last winter because of the drought.
If it had snowed, father and son had planned to ski. Too bad, but,
then my brother found the AK-47 in the closet, a box of ammo: Chilling!
He and his wife are looking forward to getting a new puppy tomorrow.
All of it is chilling, and so so sad. That email.... It's an incredible sonnet though, Tod, the list form works so well here.
How? Why?
Does the new puppy change it all?
I don't know, but it does.
For me it does.
The volta
yes
I thought it did. Entirely. I thought irony too, like Christine.
It's more chilling than the AK-47 line, which I guess is the point. I read it as irony. What about you?
Possibly!
The details so pointed, but “the bathroom never cleaned, never.” speaks to a desperation in life. Thank you for sharing, Tod.
So much said in so few words. I found this truly wonderful, Tod.
Incredibly sad, but you push it past sadness with that last line. Well done! What got me was the pillow without a pillowcase. It was wrenching.
Oh Todd.
I see it all. What a story.
Haunting. Mine was also an elegy of sorts to my brother.
Heart with you.
You know I am not religious, but doesn't mean I can't pray. I am praying for him now. For all of you. For the new puppy. Yes, so chilling but I'm glad you wrote this.
The specifics of the things left behind--the bareness of the room, a pillow without a pillowcase, and the items from an active life left behind. So nicely done, Tod!
I just loved this! The details, the richness, the list, the heart, the heartbreak... all of it is just masterful Tod. And that ending... wow.
Alice at the Shelter
At the shelter this afternoon
Alice sits on the front steps
wrapped in a blanket,
barefoot,
eating a chicken Cup ‘o Noodles.
Her coloring book
and crayons and markers
lie beside her,
the crayons like a loose pile of matches
and the markers stacked like little logs of lumber,
her book open to a picture of a unicorn
with stars and streamers
and a banner across the top that says
Believe.
(Believe should be in italics but I am not able to format it that way. I wrote this as a prose poem a while ago and just adapted it for today's prompt.)
Totally works as a sonnet! And i think the form somehow gives more emotion to the piece than if it were a paragraph.
To me there has to be a relationship between sound and silence in a sonnet and I think the sound/silence in this is beautiful, Polly. You've chosen the line breaks perfectly so there's a lovely rhythm and flow. And you've given us a striking visual image of Alice as well.
Thank you! I don't know anything about sonnets except 14 lines!
Polly this made me gasp in awareness. So much here in so few words: the coloring book, the crayons, the pens—and that last line! So well done.
Thank you!
Yes, esp the markers like little logs of lumber.
Oh, such a sweet but powerful story. Totally works as a sonnet. I think we notice individual words more in a lined form like a poem.
Thank you 🙏
Polly, it's full of real meaning and makes me a little ashamed of my jackassery.
The world needs jackasses! We always need to laugh.
A little jackassery always welcome, especially when, like me, you're sitting in a heatwave under a ceiling of wildfire smoke.
From photos I've seen, (Toronto), you're worse off smokewise. Here, locally, the only fires (wheat stubble) up to now were snuffed out quickly. But we're getting much more humidity now, which pushes the effective heat up well past 40°C most afternoons. Air humidity but no rain.
Have never seen it like this. It's been days now. Really hits home what it must be like for people, animals, plants, etc. who are actually caught up in it. Our Common Future.
Smoke has become the weather forecast this July—I’m focused on a hummingbird and wishing I could apologize to him for being human and responsible for the mess.
The pacing of this poem really works!! I can't even imagine it any other way. Just beautiful.
Thank you, Imola. I know nothing about poetry and just winged!
Beautiful. There is so much feeling here.
Thank you!
A perfect sonnet Polly.
Thank you!
"the crayons like a loose pile of matches" evokes possibilities elegantly of why she might be at the shelter.
Perhaps. She is actually a very difficult and challenging woman, hectoring people and always tossing any food we give her to the curb.
What You Are
Shall I compare you to a summer rose,
newly sprung in June?
No, you’re not a rose, not even a dandelion, but
you are
some sort of flower only a botanist could love.
I’m not a botanist, although,
Do you remember how at school I toyed with anthropology
(which isn’t botany and isn’t germane to this, or us, although
it is because B follows A and that’s how I did things then
and still do, now I think about it).
You’re not a rose you’re not a dandelion you are
a mystery plant, and I’m a detective.
Whatever you are,
your petals are soft and your stamen is sturdy and
you are perennially on my mind.
Love it.
A hardy perennial, what?
one hopes so
ha!
This is hilarious! Shakespeare weeps, then dries his eyes and laughs because who wouldn't?
Well, and who better than the Bard to steal from? He stole from everyone else.
I stole the idea for the bard from John’s last line. Sticky fingers all around.
This has really warmed my heart :))
I’m glad, Imola!
Only a botanist could love this flower, yet you, a detective, love this flower all the same. Or I think you do, at least you think about your flower all the time. That's the nature of love, isn't it?
fabulous last line. Clever!
This is great!
Oooh those flower parts that populate your sonnet! Sly, and so well done.
Just read again. Nice pun on germaine.:) Thought I noticed it yesterday, but thought I better look it up to be sure.
Oh Mary! You are speaking directly to me. You know I am a sonnet-girl.
I am cheating and sharing one I have already written.
Lament for Romeo
O bird of glorious plumage burnished gold!
from darling fluffy chick sister had raised,
to strutting king of impoverished farmyard,
whose flock of foolish hens, egg treasures laid.
O youth of crimson wattle, clarion crow!
your beauty now surpassed by attitude
cockish, while training for the country show
attacked Sister, my father quick subdued.
O pet adored, now strangely disappeared!
she mourned your feral spirit wistfully
til in the freezer found carcass bejeweled
with your turquoise wing band, horrifically.
O childhood traumas, how they propagate!
vegetarian for life because of Romeo’s fate.
This one is just wonderful! Funny, surprising, and a bit heartbreaking.
Ah, the turquoise band! Without it the poet would still be licking her fingers.
I love "O youth of crimson wattle".
I like the image of the poet still licking her fingers
On what a turn this sonnet took.
Love it. Like Mary said, funny yet heartbreaking. How could Romeo the rooster not have a sonnet dedicated to his prematurely ended life?!
Beautifully done! This exact scenario happened in our family too. Rooster biryani. Nobody wanted to eat it.
I remember reading an essay from a woman who was so disgruntled at the aggressive behavior of the rooster she raised. “I did everything for him!”
Right. And he’s a raptor.
🤣
Romeo, Romeo, wherefore art thou...
Love this one! I've survived three attempts at having roosters; two successfully re-homed, and one...well...
Love the story and the heartbreak in your sonnet. Nicely done.
Roosters... well...
REMEMBRANCE
It wasn’t supposed to be this way.
My brilliant professor. In the honors college.
I didn’t know what I was being honored for.
Everyone else was smarter.
He was mesmerizing.
We dove way out into the fall countryside, leaves on fire.
In a graveyard.
Things happened.
I was young, innocent, or stupid.
I believed anything was possible.
Love blossomed, then erupted, volcanic,
Ashes spewing.
I escaped with my life. Not his.
Anything was possible. But not.
the story between the lines is the story of many young women. "I escaped with my life." Thank god for that.
Wow.
So glad you have your life and that it's not his. Love this one.
I was at last reunited with my precious dog, Gaza, who my brother took care of
while I was “away,” for which I will be eternally grateful.
My brother is not a happy person.
He runs every regret in his life through an obsessive loop
to the soundtrack of an anti-serenity prayer,
refusing to accept what he cannot change
and trying to change the things that he can't.
It's very tough to communicate with him,
and even tougher to watch how lonely the life he leads is.
After several difficult conversations, we managed to have one good one,
in which I think he was able to be a little less defensive
about my suggestion that he try living a bit more in the present,
taking his hands off the rear view mirror and putting them on the steering wheel.
Sometimes it's hard for me to even understand how we grew up in the same family.
Such a great description of your brother! "the soundtrack of an anti-serenity prayer" and refusing to accept what he cannot change. Sounds like a lot of people, actually!
And I found, almost without fail, that if a family has 4 or more children, one of them is always that problem sibling, who just never achieved ease in his or her own skin.
I actually prepared a slew of these -- fun exercise! And loved yours Mary.
Thanks, Mark!
I can't help it, I must share the runner up:
Write about Poe. Write about trees. But fashion me no poetry.
I’d rather hear Tony Danza, than listen to your stanzas;
I have no time for rhyme! Don’t you know who I’m?
Down with iambic pentameter! (Which sounds like a fitness device)
you must think me some kind of amateur, rolling syllables like they’re dice!
Punctuation – quel bore! Commas are such whores!
They make demands, like ampersands, no buts, ifs, or ands.
This is where it all ends! (And that includes parens.)
I refuse all rules! I toss them in the refuse!
I know what you think, why not throw in the sink?
Let’s talk about the weather, or something innocuous.
Whether puns will reign today? (Now I’m being obnoxious.)
Okay, I admit it. To language I’m addicted.
My name is Word Smith, and I’m powerless.
Ha! So clever! "I know what you think, why not throw in the sink" is hilarious!
What fun! It made me smile.
It’s actually as true of families with 3 children. The rear-view mirror sentiment is so pointed and well made.
As a writer, and a sister, the sentence: "we managed to have one good one" lights up my brain. What was said? what was heard? So evocative.
At the time he was dealing with a retinal detachment, which happens to many people for no certain reason, but he was absolutely obsessed with trying to figure out why it was happening to him, specifically. He ended up calling his 90 year old biological father, who was clearly in Alzheimer’s, and had no recollection of even his existence.
There was no treatment that would be different depending on “how he got it” but he was absolutely obsessed with trying to figure it out. But somehow, I seemed to get through to him about the pointlessness of finding a cause and the necessity of moving forward. One brief conversation where I thought I might have broken through.
Several months later, convinced that his would endure too much suffering (the eye surgeon was gobsmacked - he needed a very routine operation) my brother committed suicide. He was 57.
It wasn’t about his eyes. It was about his inability to find anything resembling serenity in his own brain for his entire life.
So sad, Mark.
Thank you for sharing that, what a thing to be a sibling, powerful and powerless
Your brother comes to life in this, Mark. So many great descriptors...the anti-serenity prayer, the rearview mirror. So much of what I write comes is rooted in the mystery of family.
Great one! He runs every regret in his life through an obsessive loop. This was my mother! Love this one.
Mark, I hear that line about "the same family" over and over in recovery rooms. It's mystifying.
I would like to have a reunion of my lost memories
The ones that have disappeared with the advance of time
I’d hope some of the bad memories would get lost on the way
Taking a wrong turn on a dark country road
The reunion would be in a cabin in the woods
On a crisp autumn evening, the fireplace glowing with a crackling blaze
The memories would take turns announcing themselves
“How could you forget me?” they would say
Recovered moments would pop into my head and heart
I would recognize them as long lost friends , the people I used to be
Some innocent and lovable, others angry and distrustful
Some shy, some bold, some perplexed
I’d greet them like classmates at a high school reunion
I would recognize them, but would they recognize me?
Fantastic. A reunion of my lost memories. That would be both wonderful and terrifying!
Lovely. It’d be interesting to have the lost memories ‘correct’ what you think you remember. “It happened on Saturday, not Sunday!”
Love the idea of lost memories being like classmates at a high school reunion!
wonderful, especially the last line.
I love this.
I think about these "lost memories" so much! What happens to them? I like looking at them as long lost friends. Love yours!
The memories asking how you could forget me really hits the depths.
I love this. I'd like such a reunion as well.
What fun, Mary! Loved your sonnet -- the form really does change how we attend to the story. I love what little I've read of Diane Seuss' poetry. Hers inspired this so it is untitled.
She and the car rolled silently to the side of the road
Black and white cows munching their lunch and looking at the car without curiosity
What must they have seen that they were bored with these visitors?
It's true she and Sadie attracted more attention in bygone days, wistful
Glances, lust hanging in the air like glimmered dust, as they streaked
Down the road, a red comet set on dramatics and starry encounters
Lunch seemed like a delightful idea so she got out the sandwich from the bag
The soda from the cooler, its ice on her skin pleasant in the heat
Not enough touch, she moaned to all who would listen.
The caress, the kiss, lips heat on neck's nape
Unexpected cold from a martini'd tongue on bare thigh
Now it was just her and Sadie, rust and bolts and wire, the both of them
And their unexcited hosts on a hot summer day nearing the end of all their lives
She waved to the cows, who honored her with blinks before turning for the creek
Oh, this is just great! The roadside stop, cows and an erotic memory! Love that you put all of them together.
“Unexpected cold from a martini’d tongue on a bare thigh”: what a fabulous line, in a fabulous piece.
Love this "honored her with blinks" so good
This is why everybody should name their car. Lovely. "Unexpected cold from a martini'd tongue on bare thigh" There a whole short story in that line.
It is fun to name a car. And characters in a story. Defines them so much. Glad you liked the martini line. The whole poem is a kind of ode to a dearly beloved, now-gone friend who introduced me to the joys of a martini and also bemoaned the loss of touch.
Wonderful! Every line a vivid image.
Sherri, the melancholy tone rises off this one. So nice! The specifics of memory, especially of touch. Lovely sonnet.
I sing the praises of those who dare
Stand firm against tyranny or just against getting all the time ripped
Off by cheapjack lying salespeople of methods if you can
Call them that and yes I think you can (don't argue) so methods
Of enslaving entire populations cuffed and fettered and above all blinded
Well I don't know how to do this, I began in epic style and slid quickly
Into a rant I wouldn't dare post anywhere on internet the amount of violent
Derision it would spark though maybe on some sub-sub-sub reddit
Dedicated to post-post-sonnetry no one would see it but
This isn't what you could call sonnetry anyway there isn't a freaking
Break anywhere and the language is neither choice
Nor powerful, neither contemplative nor argumentative nor suffused
With passion dark or light –
N'est pas Shakespeare qui veut.
The meta-sonnet! No, we can't all be Shakespeare (I used google translate), but c'est la vie. I sing your praises, John, anyway.
Thank you, Mary.
It's amazing how quickly things can slide into rant, whether you will it or not.
I blame dark times. And the effing heat.
If ever there were a time for rant, this is one of them. Rail on, Patrick Henry, in your fine style.
Resistance sonnet!!! I love it.
The rant-sonnet... it's a new form
"Derision it would spark though maybe on some sub-sub-sub reddit
Dedicated to post-post-sonnetry"
Where we might very well find Shakespeare if he lived now.
wonderful.
Like Mary, I sing your praises, too. Love me a bit of meta writing. Bring it on!
Sonnet Cento (one couplet is mine)
When in despair with fortune and men’s eyes
I all alone beweep my outcast fate
Then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather
The whiskey on your breath
could make a small boy dizzy
I have been acquainted with the night
I have walked out in rain—and back in rain
It was discovered that the best way to combat
Sadness was to make your sadness a door
But given salt and given time, olives will turn sweet
and piquant as a picnic on a small Majorcan beach
As each wave is an aspect of the sea
Forget you? Never, Not while I am me.
Such a great idea!
“Not while I am me” is the key to all writing, isn’t it.
All the couplets are by well known poets except the olives. That last line is an Alzheimer’s sonnet by Marilyn Nelson.
So clever! Also, your olive lines are perfection. I especially like the specificity of a small Majorcan beach.
Thanks Sherri. It’s from my memoir in poetry called “Given Time: a mother-daughter cancer memoir”
I just added it to my to-read list. Thanks for telling me!
Love this Christine. Last line a perfect ending.
Beautiful.
Ode to Jura
How did I live without this coffee maker?
A re-gift from a friend who’d had a rift,
A much loved pal turned out to be a taker.
“I can’t stand to look at it anymore,” my friend said.
Each time she saw it sitting there, she was filled with dread.
I went to look up the price online. “Thirteen ninety-nine!”
I called and asked if she was sure, she said yes, it’s mine.
Each time I hear the whirr of the beans,
I think to myself, how could it possibly be a better gift,
A brewer that grinds and pulls shots like a dream!
And so I benefitted from an old friend’s rift.
I only have three more lines to explain this machine,
What can I say but thanks and try to explain
the feeling it gives when I pour in my cream.
hahahaha! Ode to a coffee maker! Love that last line especially.
Thank you!!!!
it wont let me heart yours right now so ❤️❤️
Thank you!!!!!
"I only have three more lines..." "the feeling it gives me when I pour in my cream" So funny! We all need a coffee machine like this - and a friend like yours who just wants to give it away!
That’s one complex cup of joe, all that backstory.
Was just going to comment on that last line but Mary g got there before me. :)
Mmmmm coffeeeeeeeeee
Me too so much!!! Not sure how much of the back story is true, but no matter. It's quite a riveting tale!
The story is more complicated and wouldn't fit in 14 lines, but basically my friend was having a great time with her old pal, her BFF, and they splurged on these coffee makers. After spending a whole week together, there was some bullshit behavior from the friend, so bad that it literally ended the long friendship. She really just couldn't stand the sight of the coffee maker!
You know what? I think I would've kept it! But to each their own. I do think of my friend every time I make coffee!
Yes, of course you do! Love that!
Sonnet for 17 July (with apologies to you know who)
A Comparison: summer’s day and life with him.
Summer is ease, leisure, moderation?
Or 45 minutes of angsty discourse with online “help”
After “someone” ordered baseball tickets from a secondary seller?
“Too hot the eye of heaven” shone as forgotten passwords and
Epithets (not telling from whom) burst like not so darling buds.
Nevermind the string of hoses stretched ‘cross half an acre,
‘Cuz the tree’s the thing, while geraniums and black-eyed Susans wilt.
Morning water nymph whose coffee pour over ne’er fails,
Nor towels forgotten for morning soak amid avian chorus.
Ahhhhhhh. But sudden scramble and naked dash
A soggy escape from jagged streak and thunderclap overhead.
So long as breath, heartbeat, and summer days allow;
And words record the chaos: He is my love.
So funny. Love me a love sonnet!
Love this. Marriage fully explained in 14 lines.
Thank you.
cool. Does he have a brother? I think I might be married to his brother.
He does have a brother. It would be fun to have you as a sister-in-law, I think.
If
today I
do one thing
to get any closer
to even the slightest worth
on this switchback trail of thornflowers
that I’ve been traversing for all memory
then oughtn’t I do that insignificant thing
before the path upwards drops again
bad knees hurt more descending
plus I could fall
but wait is
this that
thing?
"Is this that thing?" Oh, man, so good. Love the switchback of the lines here, too.
Thank you Mary. The structure just appeared, and definitely made the construction more fun and kind of weirdly easier.
Sadly, my original formatting didn't translate here to Substack; in mine, lines 8-14 slid to the right and ended on an even right margin so the whole thing looked like a drunk diamond.
Substack hates poetry...
Maybe not all poetry but I bet it
isn't kind to
cummings
This is one I want to pin on my wall. The ups and downs, the worth/insignificance, the "switchback trail of thornflowers" (and accompanying visual switchback of the lines), the determination then hesitation. Thank you for this.
Thank you for the kind words. It was fun (when I make myself do Mary's prompts they always are, and yet....so rarely do I. A clue for sure as to exactly how autobiographical the sonnet is.)
My imposing some structural rules on myself actually made it kind of easier and much more fun.
Still, I'd be reluctant to put this one on my wall, as it generally cuts me, its author, too much slack. My life's writing output is not insignificant, but it'd be a lot more weighty if I hadn't let myself get away with so many things. "but wait, is this that thing?" is something I've too often answered with "Uh, sure, why not. Why shouldn't it be?" and so I'm left with less than I'd hoped, intended or striven for.
But I do thank you, and I'm thrilled it might inspire anyone in any way.
Boundaries in writing are often very helpful, which is one reason people respond well to prompts. Hope you'll keep writing/posting!
You are very welcome. I agree writing constraints can be helpful. But language itself is always a constraint of some kind, isn't it. And I suppose the feeling of being “left with less than we'd hoped, intended, or striven for" is, in a way, what keeps us (or some of us at least) hoping, intending, striving.
I accept that gratefully, even if I go hard on myself for low output at times, I can't argue that some writing is better than none at all. If i were to stop hoping, intending, and striving, I'd be less than I am.
Regarding your excellent point about language being a constraint of sorts; I recently read a memoir of David Milch, a past mentor of mine, and his thoughts on language as a way we not only define ourselves and our communities, but also as a way we govern ourselves and our communities spoke to me. He was talking specifically about the importance of language in settings where there is no law (Deadwood South Dakota, circa 1876, in this case).
But I guess we should expect such heightened emphasis on language from a guy who wrote his TV Series in Iambic Pentameter.
Hi again Fred. Agree that some writing is always better than none at all! I have not been much of a tv person for most of my adult life (hope it's okay to admit that to a tv person!), so I had to look up David Milch. I see he did NYPD Blue (which I have seen some of), but I was not aware of the Deadwood series. Just found an article by him on LitHub and my local library has the memoir. I have some background in linguistics and ethnomusicology where the topics of how language and music govern us comes up fairly regularly, so am interested in what he has to say. I am of the understanding that iambic pentameter is a pretty regular feature of ordinary English, or at least may be perceived as such since English is a stress-timed language, so maybe he was working with that idea (?). Looking forward to following up and seeing what he has to say. Thanks for the reference.
without getting defensive, I would say objectively that he is not your typical TV person. He's deeply intellectual, spiritual, and a recovered addict with debilitating OCD. His mentor and surrogate father was Poet/novelist Robert Penn Warren of Pulitzer fame. So David's spin on writing is pretty different from most highly successful writer creators. Deadwood and John from Cincinnati are, in my view, masterworks of storytelling craft. But even if you don't look into the shows, the memoir is remarkable, not least because he is currently deep into severe Alzheimer's dementia, and was in there when writing the memoir, so relied on his wife and children who had documented the past few decades of his creative process and work. The Memoir is called Life's Work and I cannot recommend it highly enough. The two classes I took with him in 2001 and 2007 were life altering and are legendary withing the Writers Guild of America West archives.
So, when someone says rules, I say no rules. When someone (i.e., mary g.) says no rules, I say rules. Annie Mary Quite Contrary here with a shitty first (twelfth maybe?) draft--okay, let's say experiment. But I did try to follow a couple more of the Shakespeare sonnet rules: 10 syllables each line; 3 quatrains and a rhyming couplet. I did and did not follow the prescribed rhyming pattern, meaning I used some near rhymes--I know Mark will be cringing. The third stanza's got a doozy. :) Anyway, thanks for bearing with. (Tried to separate the stanzas but Shakespeare won't let me.)
Fourteen Lines
Lines our mothers strung to pin our clothes on
Lines our fathers cast to reel in stories
Lines we scribbled dutifully in crayon
Lines graced round our necks to ease our worries
Lines we broke to find a way to freedom
Transgress the rules, come full into our own
Lines that loved our footfalls when we walked them
Poured stars and set our restlessness to song
All the lines we’ve crossed and drawn between us
Illusions all, like lines ‘tween sky and sea
Particles, that’s all that’s ever been us
Vibrations all, no being meant to be
Still, lines are what I know as poet's art
So give me lines and let me fill my heart.
incredible! I am so impressed!
Thanks very much mary g.!
“Lines our fathers cast to reel in stories” hit a chord with me, my father loved to fish and tell stories (but not at the same time).
Thanks, John. So nice of you to pick out a line you liked (just as you did last week). That's what I was especially working toward--just one or two lines that might have some resonance through sound, rhythm, grammar, syntax, image, something like that (kind of like the one photo out of 100 idea, I guess). Nice of you to, um, "catch" what I was aiming for.
Beautiful.
A real sonnet! I am in awe. This is a small masterpiece.
Thank you Kathy B. Don't know about small masterpiece, but it was a try.
Desert Dreams.
Don’t dream of gardens in the desert.
No.
In the desert, dreams should be shallow until like a stream they merge with another, plunge into a canyon, and are briefly deep and swift only to disappear into the ground to wander unseen and undisturbed for centuries.
When you are not dreaming, your desert thoughts will be as sharp and clear as the air.
You will see mountains a hundred miles away slice the sky while the edge of the stone at your foot will be sharp enough to shave off any callous.
There are edges everywhere which is a comfort because a dry world with sharp edges is paradoxically easy to navigate.
In the desert, you know your boundaries and vulnerabilities, so you are careful, carrying water, wearing a hat against the sun and boots against the snakes.
You will be aware of the moment and take nothing as given.
Not that there aren’t gardens. There are.
The fleeting –plants that rise up and get their business done quickly in the brief moments when conditions are right, sometimes just a few hours or days in a year or more.
Don’t dream of those gardens. Let them surprise you. Once you see them, you carry them with you forever, as promises and comfort.
The enduring – a lone tree that found water deep below and in its shelter harbors grasses and sedges and you when you need a respite from the sun.
These gardens are real, not dreams. Remember them.
"Don’t dream of those gardens. Let them surprise you." Love the surprises found in the desert. This is a marvelous and beautiful sonnet!
I am not a huge fan of nature poetry, personally (and I hope it's okay if I classify your poem as such?), but this is one of the most beautiful pieces I've ever read. I love the way you've contrasted various states of mind with various contrasts in the desert. A pleasure to read.
Oh, thank you.
You're very welcome.
I love the turn “Not that there aren’t gardens. There are.” A wonderful setup for the surprise to come.
Monsanto Chemicals
I wrote a lot of poems in the early 1970s.
I kept them in a black binder, three-hole punched.
One night/early morning in June 1972
I saw the Northern Lights for the first and only time
in Alaska. I lived there then, but was about to move.
I was attending the Democratic State Convention
as a delegate, representing Anchorage District One.
That. night, after the convention, I went out
with Rusty, another delegate, and together
we saw those lights.
I lost my binder of poems that night, somehow.
There was no other record.
The only one I remember was about Monsanto
and how it was killing us all.
Well done! The sonnet dives in close where we get a look at the night with Rusty, and then we zoom out again. Really so good.
Read again and again. Great poem!