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Sunday, August 09, 2015

A Hunger for Sonnets

Reading Sonnets

do you remember the summered air
coloured terracotta and lazily
moving through our feet as we lay there:
a red blanket of beach and sleeping sea,
where you read to me under the shade
from a favourite One Hundred Love Sonnets
by Pablo Neruda, and you made
me wonder about the year he wrote it,
how memory can obscure a thing,
but put it into writing and here
it lies in hands open and breathing,
talking of topaz, sweat and shining bare,
    and the closeness between yours and mine,
    when we close our eyes to the tide and time.


Breaking Sonnets

There is a hunger in me
to break
       through the form of sonnets,
       their thin
restrictive hymen
that swells with longing, the feeling
       of breaking in
something so fragile: to ease yourself in
       contrastive pockets; two emotional states
that come together to bring
couplets alternating in rhyme,
fault lines that rub
against each other
       in and out of time; and

there is that hunger in me
to loose its soul,
free to fall--
words landing
       their breathless bodies
on the pages of the world;

where the human hunger to read
is a farmer's hunger
to seed the soil
       of a simple flesh opening
like a wound released to bleed;
pouting lips yearning to breathe
       to unearth the mantle
that seeks the sky
        its need to rain
until it runs dry.


Being Sonnets

poets don't read poetry do they?
they live poetry; its their milk
taken from the morning cow
milked thoroughly, churned and spread
butter to their bread;

but surely poets should be
both reader and editor
so they know what
their bread is buttered for;

or maybe poets are sonnets,
arguments built, moving
from one metaphor to the next,
themes pulled and stretched,

cryptic symbols and vital traditions,
connection and disections,
a dark shaft of misdirections,
or a light of illuminations
to keep alive the word.

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