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VOLUME II  -  BOOK III

This Angel Hovering Upon The Street

A Cycle Of Twelve Sonnets

Noël Tointon

1996

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Introduction

	These sonnets can be read individually, but, preferably, should be read as a sequence. 
	In this sequence it is not my ambition to write a traditional sonnet but to use that form to create a different, more contemporary way of using that genre. In this task I have allowed myself a certain degree of latitude that will, no doubt, offend those more conservative in taste. Let me list some of the offences committed in this effort to re-write the sonnet form:

i.	The imposition of a higher rhythmic conception upon an implicit iambic background. E.g., my tendency to stress the first beat of the line, syllables 6, 8 and 10, in the process treating syllables 2-5 as neutral, as neither weak nor strong. In effect, giving these verses a rhetorical flavour, and in the process, personally signing these verses so to speak. Borrowing from my studies in Sanskrit Poetics I am overlaying this implicit iambic baseline with a grid of strong-long and weak-short beats (rather than beats of a merely strong or weak nature, i.e., with an emphasis more on the perceived duration, weight or temporal quantity, of the syllable, etc.). Further more, I am often contrasting both patterns between lines, and also introducing...

ii.	Triplet patterns into the occasional line, e.g., one to two triplets between the first six beats, or, a triplet at the end of the line...

iii.	Overall, trying to preserve the natural speech/grammatical patterns of that line as if that line was conceived before its incorporation within a sonnet...

iv. 	Experimenting with lines of eleven syllables...

v.	Using natural speech patterns, internal rhymes, alliterations, assonances, repetitions, etc., to convey certain emotional states of consciousness through some form of temporal-spatial, or sentic, analogy (through connotations, distributions of sounds within these grids, etc.)...

vi.	Through the deliberate suggestion of multi-readings, giving in parallel, and through synthesis, a dialectical enrichment of `our' (`final') reading of these texts. That the proposition of a reading should find itself being reinforced through both a repetition of that motif/allied motifs, and, a structure that sets up a collective reading of those metaphorical motifs, and their rhetorical resolution, through the resolution of that reading/that set of readings (and therein re-covering the `apparent intention/intentions' of the `author.' In this hermeneutic fashion treating the text, therein, as a phenomenon in its own right.).

	Of course, whether these experiments work, or not, is for the reader to decide... Or perhaps more correctly, in the end time itself, alone, will decide which facets will be salvaged, which facets should be salvaged, which facets might be salvaged and re-used in the generated constitution of a new set of contemporary poems!

	A Commentary has also been indicated but in such a manner that the reader themself is actively encouraged to engage in this process of textual reflection. Such comments being made, in a rhetorical mode, only as a guide, or sketch, of certain points that would need to be taken into account in a relatively enriched reading of that text.

	In the light of the above arguments it is my hope that these sonnets not be too harshly criticized, and, that the reader will find, at least, some small degree of delight within their fictional embodiment?

						Noël Tointon, Sydney, 16.2.96.

Re-edited 27.6.02

1.   This Angel Hovering Upon The Street (81)

      There, through this coffee shop window, I look
at this angel hovering upon the street,
his beaut'ous form in reflection I meet
as I watch him, unwatched, while I here talk
of other things with friends unsuspecting;
in this tide of superficial chatter
on subjects and topics that no more matter,
embodied thus in this world so fleeting.
      Here, where I sit, alas, I cannot see
this sight directly, in the flesh, face to face,
yet while the world must think I perceive the pace
of passing traffic peruse his ministry...
I now find sweet comfort knowing his name,
for this night, with a smile, did trade the same.…

Commentary

Repetition of seeing motifs in contrast with the superficial sounds of the fleeting world.
In a same vein, w.r.t. repetition, note the `difference' between (things,) subjects and topics. What additional light does that cast on the tenor of this sonnet?

l.3: meet is used in an ironic sense because the angel is watched but does not see the author of the sonnet, yet, in the concluding couplet, it would appear, he has already `seen' that person. In the light of the concluding couplet, in a re-reading of this line, who exactly is `unwatched' by whom?
l.8: Intentionally ambiguous - four non-religious readings?
l.12: ministry intentionally ambiguous - two non-religious readings? l.11-12 can also be given two differently readings which then effect the reading of the concluding couplet.
l.14: There is an aural play on the word night? The ambiguities of this line also lend themselves to a multiple set of readings. 

Nb. in a religious reading along Platonic (and Neoplatonic) lines there is re-created a reversal of meaning wherein the `heavenly' reflection of the angel is now more real that his embodiment, etc...
Nb. in another religious reading of this sonnet there is the twist that the angel (or saint) in prayer should be addressed by name, but, that, in this instance, the addressed here supplies the name, indeed, supplying more than just the `same'.…

2.   Trying To Quickly Hide Such Transparency (82)

      With abated breath I suddenly see
myself seeing him, and he, his sweet self,
seeing me, ourselves with a graceless stealth 
trying to quickly hide such transparency,
but, alas, two naked souls cannot be 
long untouched by this loving-lustful wealth
of an unspilt desire whose unspelt health
demands we recognize such harmony.
      The slightest inflexion of his ruby lips,
the merest movement of his shapeless hips,
the faintest hint of his having seen me,
even his singing voice in ringing mem'ry
leaves me helpless and inwardly shivering,
plucked like a lute with strings still quivering.

Commentary

In this sonnet the lovers directly see each other, look into each other's eyes and realize how transparent they stand in front of each other.

l.6: Note the apposition of loving and lustful, need they be irreconcilable?
l.7: Unspilt can have a number of implications and connotations.
l.8: The motif of harmony is linked to one of the major motifs of the resolution of relational dissonance. This musical motif is repeated in sonnets 6, 7, 8.
l.14: Note the opposition, in one reading, between still and quivering.

3.   Gentle Paeans Of Praise That Don't Quite Fit (83)

      This youth-filled spirit glides across the floor
to greet me with those welcome words of wit,
gentle paeans of praise that don't quite fit
this slightly clumsy form of a self, unsure
in step, yet, equally knowing how to soar
through secret realms of thought too intricate
for thin pages to have writ on delicate
foreheads not bleached on tanned beaches outdoor.
      But, then, it was at that moment we should meet,
when hands did kiss each other through the air
and hearts and minds in a lifted flight path
took to wandering without worldly feet,
revealing traces of guilt without a care
in the embrace and space of one short laugh.

Commentary

This sonnet celebrates the lovers talking and laughing with each other.

l.1: Glides across the floor = hovering in the first sonnet.
l.4: This line is slightly `clumsy' with 11 syllables.
l.7: Pages can be read different ways.
l.9: Shaking hands, one of the ways society currently allows people to touch in public.
l.11: A foreshadowing of sonnets 9 and 10.
l.13: Guilt can also be read as gilt. This idea foreshadowing one of the major themes in the next sonnet.

4.   How Ideal I Did Find His Perfect Form (84)

      When fate did introduce this gilded angel
how ideal I did find his perfect form,
and how my heart did beat like bees that swarm,
rising up, up-welling from my breast to fill
this drunken, dancing brain that did revel
in those wond'rous qualities fiery warm
for so it seemed his lofty frame did storm
on my horizon in these times so special.
      But now I know better, now know thee well,
thou art not cast in gold, or polished silver,
nor archaic bronze, even common pewter,
but, in the mere imprint of worldly matter;
yet, despite such deformity in detail,
thy tender touch still throws its magic spell.

Commentary

The lover of the beloved now claims to be no longer under any illusions about the beloved... really? Then, again, despite such de-illusionment he still finds the touch of the beloved magical, musical, mystical..?

l.1: The key-word gilded has some negative connotations.
l.1-8: Some contest between heart-beats in double time and dancing in triple time (suggesting irregular heart beats?).
l.7: Storm motif is taken up in sonnets 8, 9.
l.9: An allusion to Shakespeare - Hamlet.
l.10-11: A second allusion to Shakespeare - Merchant of Venice.
l.12: References to a Platonic/Neoplatonic type of interpretation of reality, in effect, retrospectively re-reading the first sonnet..?
l.13: Is the author being satirical in their description and understanding of the beloved? Do we get a foretaste of this in the sestet in son.2, and the end of the octet in son.3?
l.14: Nb. tender touch... still(ness)... throws...

5.   Like Eagles Holding Hands (85)

      To this lofty native bushland nest go
secretively, like eagles holding hands,
stealing quick kisses while we watch these bands
of human heads bobbling along below,
our arms taking each other's waist in tow
when our sight-line thinks itself clear, demands
this simple fact, `though the felt look still stands
as fiery passions embrace that sinking glow.
      Downward we then descend, with falling sticks
and stones, before that velvet curtain tricks
us in this final act, while stars falter,
polished like silver-ware on some altar,
as we stumble along beneath that face -
one rising moon blessing this sacred space.

Commentary

Essentially the lovers are courting with a number of motifs foreshadowing the next sonnet...

l.2: How do we resolve the mixed metaphor of like eagles holding hands? That the octet more or less does that for us?
l.8: Sinking glow = setting sun... implicating a falling motif... the look echoed in the face of the moon.
l.9-10: Down into the troubles of the world?
l.10: What is the velvet curtain, is that final act the final act (or is it the unresolved argument?)?
l.11-13: A coincidence between faltering, stumbling, polishing. Implicating a nervous quality..?
l.14: Note blessing this sacred space of the relationship and not that sacred place where they were courting..? 
This sonnet ending in a reversal of this falling motif.…

6.   This Silent Tune (86)

      Nervous, I said, "not here, better in bed,"
with a steady clatter took cups and plate
from our last supper to the sink, await
here for his arrival, having there fled,
and in switching off the lights then prepared
myself in the half-dark to meet this fate,
turning on one dragonfly lamp ornate,
lighting one lute player beneath the lead.
      Upon the walls a blue and purple moon
left wonderful shadows to lightly fall,
to delicately dance this silent tune:
"from the Lord of Creation thinking all,
those dream of the Divine, it must be said,
come from both his sweet hand and his sweet head."

Commentary

Now the lovers become lovers in historical fact..?

l.2: nervous... steady clatter... fled... all re-written in the sestet..?
l.3: Last supper has what sort of connotation?
l.4: Who has fled where?
l.4-8: Switching off re-written by turning on...
l.6:	Why is it half-dark? Refer to line 9.
l.8: But, how many lute players beneath the lead-light of the ornate lamp?
l.9: Two moons or one? 
l.10: Shadows `lightly' fall.
l.11: Silent - tune?
l.12: How many Lords of Creation?
l.14: Essentially, a simultaneously involved/detached erotic-theology... with Neoplatonic overtones... The last three lines being, in effect, a hymn.

7.   Watching A Moon Caress His Sleeping Form (87)

      In cold of night I find your icy nose
so perfectly balanced by one firm tongue,
O what heavenly pleasure has been wrung
from this sweet instrument where e're it goes.
In depths of dark I find your distant toes
counter-balanced by those fingers deft flung
about my still person, now heavenly strung,
wanting to be played the way my Master chose.
      In dreams of dawn before his first kiss wait
watching a moon caress his sleeping form,
I, myself, moored alongside, keeping warm,
list'ning to waves lapping this beach innate -
in reverie rememb'ring sands of gold
when shadows alone could the other hold.

Commentary

A sonnet in three quartets and one couplet celebrating various contrasts about the beloved, in knowing the beloved...

l.2: Is just the tongue being referred to here?
l.4: The instrument that detects sweetness is now that sweet instrument.
l.7-8: The lute player motif for a third time.
l.9-12: Allusions to the poem, When I Heard At The Close Of Day, by Walt Whitman.
l.13-14: A similar motif as expressed in sonnet 5. In sunlight, in public, the lovers couldn't hold each other. In the moonlight they can (even despite the fact that one or both of the lovers is, or are, asleep).

8.   One Lasting Argument, Our First And Last? (88)

      We went about the town, its ebb and flow
sometimes distracting those cycles of thought
that course through worldly veins by commerce taught
to bargain, to simulate, dramatic show,
to banter, to barter, hanker, off throw
simple pedestrians in this way caught
passing through this troubled all-weather port,
ne'er resolving within those seeds we sow.
      And thus in this inclement soil would spring
such painful disagreement that would bring
one lasting argument, our first and last,
to sever it would seem this pact held fast?
Would we ne'er know that sweetest joy in life
the way actors `cite words of surface strife?!

Commentary

A sonnet that discusses dissonance...

l.7-8: Pedestrians passing through a port - walking on water, walking through the air..?
l.9: But seeds need rain, water...
l.11: Last has two readings... read on...
l.13-14: That greatest joy is not sexual, per se, but that experienced in the resolution of surface strife.
l.14: `cite can be given six significant readings, namely, cite, sight, site, recite, resight, resite... A Shakespearean allusion made also in passing. 

The implication can be drawn that strife is only superficial and that the depths of a relationship are realized in and through processes of ongoing resolution.…

9.   I Pass These Frozen Hours Of Sleepless Nights (89)

      Alone through these old, cold deserted streets
I pass these frozen hours of sleepless nights
upon pavements smelling of such delights
that for a time had patrons grace those seats,
but sunk fast in decay that now defeats
the passage of a bitter wind that bites,
scatters a thousand furry feet in flights	 
of feasting among these discarded treats.
      This dismal scene I do not see, instead,
a sharp landscape of dull desires bled dry,
then coloured black, painfully etched in grey,
for this stormy May month my sleeping bed   
should still be warm and filled with dreams that fly
beside this foreign friend who flew away.

Commentary

The sonnet is essentially a sequence of words with a connotation that repeats the expression, by the author, of a depressed, agitated state of mind.

l.1: The beginning of this sonnet is an allusion to a famous Italian sonnet Solo E Pensoso written by Petrarch (and often set to music, e.g., by Marenzio) but situated in an urban landscape and not a rural one. 
l.2: The word frozen is used in a double sense.
l.4: Is the author thinking of a time when he dined with his friend?
l.5: Sunk is contradicted by fast, fast is contradicted by decay, that decay defeats that freezing wind.
l.6: That bitter wind bites not the rubbish so much as the feet of rats, which, in turn, mirror those seated patrons. Such guests involved in flights of feasting (foreshadowing/ pre-echoing the last line).
l.7: Scatters is used in an ironic sense brought out in the word flights.
l.9: Not `seen' but more re-interpreted, in a sense personified.
l.10: Dull rewritting sharp, dull desires being a desire emptied of desire that for all its absence of desire is intensely felt through that sense of absence.
l.12: Bled dry rewritten by black, coloured black rewriting the word coloured, grey then rewriting this sense of blackness.
l.13: Stormy suggesting what about the relationship? Sleeping bed implying sleepless nights of another sort?
l.14: Foreign qualifies friend? How do we interpret the phrase who flew away?

10. That It Was Best We Part This Way, Alone (90)

      After a week in my mind's ear still hear
my dear friend's final speech by telephone,
from the airport, in a decisive tone,
that he had decided, just then and there,
to leave, head back home, and to clear the air,
that it was best we part this way, alone,
too painful to say good-bye having known
better times, that he would just disappear.
      But one week later one letter arrived
bearing local postage with mark derived
from that city suburb of Kings Cross, and read,
"Please forgive me, Dear Friend, for what I said,
I was prepared to leave but could not part,
please ring me, I love you with all my heart.…"

Commentary

A Dear John letter by telephone, with a twist... Demonstrating that decisions that effect the other should be made together, made mutually... That in effect we cannot part this way, alone…?

11. I Remember That Day We Went To Bed (91)

      I remember that day we went to bed
until the ev'ning of the next, to dine,
then, with three courses, coffee and cake, wine
taken from the cellar, a rich blood red;
to match this passion now better fed,
in ecstasy, intimacy divine,
in perfect touch, letting our hands entwine,
in shared synchronicity newly wed.
      O wretched world burn, burn, burst into fire,
know thee not that to live is to desire,
but, remember, that to pleasure pleasure
is then to escape in equal measure
this one, true transcendental realm above
that here, below, makes flesh in acts of love!

Commentary

A sonnet on the theme that love is experienced through resolution, that love, indeed, is that process of resolution, resolution of lust, desires, etc., etc., which must at the same time, never be allowed (unless dictated by that relationship) to find a final resolution in order to preserve itself as a relationship in current-historical fact..!

A slightly satirical, comic account: with passions better fed, with hands that are wed...

Note the use of repetition wherein the same word repeated is not the same word (grammatically, logically, etc.).

But desire itself is not to be desired for itself!

The equivalence of the transcendent and the immanent, the same experienced through transcendental suspension wherein facts are made historical flesh through acts of love, acts of relation, acts of ongoing resolution... 

An interesting way of re-writing the short-sighted notion that sex is only for conception, etc.

12. Now I Treasure Those Moments Of Dissension (92)

      Now I treasure those moments of dissension,
those short, sharp breezes that ruffle our feathers,
psychic souls are made in intemp'rate weathers,
through resolution there's this new dimension,
a realm inside out, undressed, in suspension,
there naked we stand, or lie, while love tethers
this boat of a relation-ship, then severs,
in secret, our passageway through convention.
      Today we made love behind the high school shed,
perhaps tomorrow in someone else's bed,
last week in an alley way not getting home,
last night, and thinking of you, whilst all alone,
next year still hope to feel you under my skin,
however young, or aged, overweight, or thin?!

Commentary

A conclusion to this cycle written in eleven syllables to the line. Various motifs being brought together in this final sonnet.

l.5: Transcendental suspension.
l.6: Stand - multiple readings. Lie - multiple readings.
l.6-8: Tethers... severs. Boat...relation-ship. What is severed? Our passageway, our passageway through convention, tethering, convention itself... witness the unconventional sequence of activities in the sestet!
l.8: Secret because the relationship is unique and is experienced directly by only those directly involved in that relationship, hence secretly.
l.13: Under my skin - multiple readings. In a complex sense, through synthesis, a summing up of the major themes, and their interaction, in this cycle of sonnets...
l.14: Implicating a transcendence of embodiment…?

Supplement To Book III

93. (IX.I.2.1)

His registration number was called up,
he stood in line beside the office door.
His registration number was called out,
so many were chosen to fight this war.
His registration number was called up,
and was fated to live this life no more.
His registration number was spelt out,
in a telegram dropped upon the floor.
Go, our hero called out, beyond recall,
his name no longer enumerated
on the echoing lips of moving rhyme.
Somewhere in distant France his grave is shared,
cared for by those working worms of the soil,
in fields fresh with corn cut down in their prime.

94. (IX.I.2.2)

Just who is it that sings inside this house,
and who is it that knocks hard upon the door?
Just who is it that cries within these walls,
and who is it that laughs about the war?
Wriggling, crawling, taking tentative steps,
what age hath this spirit walking the floor?
Struggling, falling and picking themselves up,
to what great heights can the inner soul soar?
Catching morning sun beams dancing in the dust
the eyes of this small child forget to see
and in their stead soon learn to merely speak.
Fetching things, hearing the gossip discussed,
discovering our playful humanity
repeated in endless games of hide and seek.

95. (IX.I.2.3)

This modest penthouse apartment has eyes,
windows upon the working world below.
This old fashioned art deco flat has ears
to hear footsteps climbing those concrete stairs.
This warm, welcoming mansion has a mouth,
one drafty door through which westerlies blow.
This heavenly retreat sits perched head-like
upon the shoulders of a hill of pray'rs.
Although resident in these simple rooms
a citizen has the freedom to roam
the wide cosmos beyond these four square walls.
Or, to visit through musty pages those tombs
filled with dead authors as if still at home
in conversation with the spirit who calls...

96. (IX.I.11a)

A common cooking pot, and nothing more,
indeed, even less, made for mere ceremony,
in shape roughly fashioned in a geometry
already forged those thousand years before,
its rusty surface impressed with a score
seen only by the dead in that cemetery,
endlessly cloned, twinned in moulded progeny,
what sacrifice shriveled within thy store?
At what cheap price did this cauldron first trade,
at what great cost now bought in coins hard-earned,
mere marks on slips of paper that forbade
my travelling, that left one trip adjourned,
to old Cathay, where past and present played
in dreams that my spirit alone discerned..?

97. (IX.I.11b)

A common cooking pot, and nothing more,
indeed, even less, made for mere ceremony,
in shape roughly fashioned in a geometry
already forged those thousand years before,
its rusty surface impressed with a score
seen only by the dead in that cemetery,
endlessly cloned, twinned in moulded progeny,
what sacrifice shrivelled within thy store?
But now behold and see how age transforms
this bronze with patina emerald green,
tinged red and gold, magically informs
us how those cruel times, with wars obscene,
once also knew an inward peace that storms
upon this stage peacefully in between.…

98-104. (IX.I.16a-d)

(IX.I.16: 6 free sonnet combinations in short metre or to be read as a unit-sequence with verse refrain)

Poems Know Where They Belong

(1/6) 
Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy.

(1/8, 2/8)
Some lines in a complicated ballet,
without refrain, without rhyme,
touch transcendental chords
in a celestial music ethereal.
While other styles in a simple thrust,
without subtlety, without delay,
have more basic keys struck,
ringing sounds in a precise display.

(2/6, 3/6) 
Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy.

(3/8, 4/8)
Some poems need no pages 
to serve them in their train,
what you hear is what you get 
in all its well-honed finery.
Others more shy need to be re-seen
before more silent thoughts can be heard,
echoing between the lines like birds,
in speeches delivered without words.

(4/6, 5/6)
Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy.

(5/8, 6/8)
No matter what critics might say
when the body is made to sway
filled with passions profound
then images and ideas chant hand in hand. 
No matter what style be in play
when the spirit wings its way,
when harmony is found
its found inside the meaning and the sound.

(6/6)
Poems know where they belong,
between the dance and the song;
when you dance and when you sing
see poetry flying free
with two wings beating,
humming in an inner ecstasy

105-109. (IX.I.24 –4 free sonnets)

1. In Autumn do you need those leaves retrieved,
like gold stars stuck upon the shiny velvet pavement,
or papering the dry grass like soggy books all scattered,
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

For an honest fee he will rake the garden free,
weed the beds of bedraggled flowers, trim the edges, 
give a haircut to the roses and other bushes,
plant those jonquils and other bulbs, all year round
massage and manage your lawn or veggie patch,
bring into flower all manner of flora, 
lop dead branches from tree-ferns, feeding those pots
with dynamic lifter, fine minerals and fertilizer…

If you need a gardener then handy Andy is your man,
if you need a gardener then handy Andy is your man…

2. In Winter after work before it gets too dark
if you need your shopping brought home or some other errand,
parcels collected from the post-office, bones from the butcher,
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

He’s a hard worker who’ll give the house its weekly clean,
give the carpets a thorough vacuuming, 
see that those Persian mats get a proper beating, 
polish the silver till you’ll smiling all over it,
set the table for a party of twelve, wash the laundry,
fold the sheets and shirts, put away the linen,
make the beds as if in some holiday inn,
even feed the dog and walk the cat should you insist…

If you need a cleaner then handy Andy is your man,
if you need a cleaner then handy Andy is your man…

3. In Spring if you need an interior decorator
to see rooms repainted all minimal and post-modern,
or returned in a hush to a lifestyle more romantic,
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

Watch him turn inside out your run down mansion
and then put it back together like no other,
work miracles on the inner masonry,
have the plaster restored to perfect Victorian taste,
get the old wood-work whipped into shape,
see tiles placed in a sympathetic symmetry,
find all manner of lighting expertly strung up and hung,
with the furniture  re-positioned without a scratch…

If you need a decorator then handy Andy is your man,
if you need a decorator then handy Andy is your man…

4. In Summer if you think your roof needs fixing,
or those eaves re-painted in a stunning pink,
or the chimney-tops needs an authentic re-topping
then Andy the handy-man is your man…

Watch him dance o’er the shingles like an angel
on fire, painting those balls on the balustrade,
climbing that central urn twinkling like some Xmas star,
all stripped to the waist, washed in manly sweat…

Watch - but do not touch! Don’t ask for overtime,
or those extra services bought round some dark, quiet, 
innocent corner, this artist ne’er charges after-hours, 
only works at home for pleasure, not profit…

when Andy the handy-man is your man,
when Andy the handy-man is your man...!

110. (IX.I.H)

Supplement H
As Writ in the Larger Book of Life

      In this sonnet there be no tome on life,
And in this tome no sonnet in design;
No old fashioned poetry line by line
That parses well, this test, instead, a knife
Hollowing out such a genre - How rife
That pose of squawking, squeaking mice that dine
On words, although ‘tis how I feel, ‘cause fine
Sadness now lies beside me, like a wife.
      Would that I could write well upon paper
The colour and sheen of his golden hair,
But died this desire in my angel’s look
When our dreams dissolved in human vapour;
So backpack the cosmos engraved on air,
Bedded betwixt the pages of this book.

111-114.  (X.1 – 3 free sonnets in the form of a sequence)
The True Lie of the land

The true lie of the land,
all those myths that cloak the landscape,
leave souls stuck as if on fly paper,
enough truth  to make things stick,
with some grit like sand underfoot,
and yet flash with a sheen 
that lets slip all those who try to grab
what cannot be simply grasped…

Noble savages, civilized pioneers,
honest greenies, politicians with vision,
this country has a constitution,
some backbone, call it determination,
born from solitude
blown in from the desert…

2.    The true lie of the land,
all those views from cityscapes,
on the maps rivers as roads,
fragile swamps as village ponds,
urban bush as mere backyards,
mountain slopes as hills with a view,
forest blocks with fire trails
named, or numbered, like streets…

Which history is taught, which songs sung,
what do we have in common 
is not much more than that,
and even then would you join in,
dance at a Greek wedding,
spend all day in a black man’s seated circle..?

3.    The true lie of the land
I believe’s a moulded mindscape,
is just that, just this, I sadly sigh, alas,
in worlds shared, pre-constructed,
like nomads wandering no-man’s land,
like a snail without a home
struggling on forgetting there’s one carried 
on our back, on our back…

Britain will protect us, and the Yanks,
all Asians speak with one Chinese tongue,
sandy Blackmen want all the land,
newspapers speak the truth,
it’s all printed there in black and white,
if only you would read between the lines….

115. (X.18 free sonnet with two extra lines)

Into this room we have wandered,
through the same door, but not the same portal…

This room has a name but no walls,
with wide windows that look inward upon
a world of congregated souls…

In good faith or in bad faith we enter,
we set out to explore, probing the text,
self-questioning the need for that last question…

I think I know what brings you here, and, 
I know that you most likely think the same for me..?

But can thoughts and desires be so easily matched
and packaged like two packs of ornate cards 
in a perfect, parallel game of snap..?

A butcher sells meat for money,
and in the work he’s done is happy…
could mirrored friendship be so mutual..?!

116. (X.20)

      Today finished a great novel; read not written,
and feel I have met that author; somewhere in there,
somewhere between the lines, sighted in each chapter,
elusive, in virtual space betwixt the cover;
like footsteps on the sand even if washed away
you just know that someone recently passed you by, 
some person who was quite some person, is someone,
like fragrances from a neighbour’s garden at night,
smelt, unseen scents literally traced out upon the breeze, 
felt like the soft breath of whispered conversation
that says, “I am still here, I am instilled in air…”
too subtle to be caught in a web of words, no
instrument to show a silent ghost wandered by 
with their rustling servants of a thousand pages….

117. (X.28)

      ‘Tis true rough rock is the more beautiful 
than any fancy, freshly inspired sculpture,
yet, if the sculpture be captured in stone, 
surely, that proud, pedestalled piece must be 
even more magnificent than just nature’s 
mere handy-work, just as the half-shattered 
scratchings and scrapings of a child’s castle 
moulded in sand facing a watery fate 
must be better than any glinting quartz grain -
rainbow-hued, multi-faceted, crystal…
ourselves, our handiwork, this creation
washed away like an ice-cream in a cone
about to be lapped in the licking tide;
…made with sweat, erased without regret...?

118. (X.67)

      Ev’ry human face is pitted and flawed,
scoured by history and soured by industry,
a bloated, blotchy peach ne’er ‘er repaired,
how could one in meeting fall deep in love
with some unknown person when the wrapping
looks as if the package might fall apart,
swiftly present us with the passing wreck 
as grave as a ruined face cut in stone..?

      Ah, but love lets us see what is hidden
lets us discover what’s not forbidden,
gifts to us new eyes to see inward here
how secret passion re-paints in sweet tones
songs that sing our praise lest should silent time
quick smart undress vanity’s fine veneer….

119. (X.75 free sonnet)

Write about what you know,
write poetry about what you know!

But you discover through poetry 
what you didn’t know!

Through the looseness of a logic unstrapped
a body of ideas and images begins to glow, 
naked, alluring, shaped to beacon, 
setting out to seduce, thrill, instil
a wonder all anew, transform this world
oft’ treated as if banal…

I try to write of an urban landscape
but this strange countryside of my re-birth
overwrites, overwhelms my silent pen with songs 
which, when (can be) sung, seem so lyrical….
120. (X. 83 free sonnet)

Black, black the storm that freezes
the soul upon shores of ice,
leaves hope stranded on the tide
tightly strung, soon to snap, yet…

Without rhythm, without rhyme
find a champagne sea swimming
in eyes that desire to bathe 
us with their beautiful voice, 
flood us with celestial charm,
a crystalline heart on fire, 
welcoming the dew-fresh dawn
as if ‘morning’ would ne’er end…

Shared sadness distills mis’ry
in’ sweet drops of ecstasy…!

121. (X.87)

The cold, pale window tonight
overlooks the valley enshrouded in mist,
long metaphorical tears slip down the pane.
Seated at my desk in front of my slow heater 
I am reading history, nothing changes it seems…

Why do we waste our time with tyrants, 
war criminals, petty thieves that fill our courts?
These folk are so ordinary, almost banal.
Better to emulate those heroes remembered 
undermining such common foe...

Trying to keep warm, a black cockatoo nestles
in  the dripping pine tree above the roof 
munching cones, passing occasional comment
on the night life struggling to survive below….

122 (X.88 free sonnet)

      A few falling snowflakes, Winter’s first,
 look like white gold fish when they dance 
over the pond, its surface icy bright in the dawn,
a dappled mirror between this world and that
starting to crack, break, and slip apart…

Beautiful are those moments when 
the inner and outer dissolve in sheer ecstasy
to merely reflect the reflection of things…

…a dappled mirror between this world and that
starting to crack, break, and slip apart…

Sight flying gold fish burnished in amber sunlight
now swimming in the morning breeze, spiraling down,
alighting upon a self-lit surface created by the mind…

…to merely reflect a simulation of the divine….

123. (X.88 free sonnet)

How I long to be embraced by another soul
transparent, open, honest, soft and tender to the touch
as if god himself were this god incarnate…

Instead perceive shoppers chasing apparent specials,
displays in windows that seem to speak to them,
all purchases wrapped in bags of plastic…

Here a sore footed woman finds enjoyment on a seat,
there a pensioner hasn’t worked out what to buy for tea,
nearby a student has flowers already held as if to give… to me..?

What is this simple soul thinking, I muse?
Obviously lost in thought, composing a poem,
fishing for divine lines in a human sea…

All awash in emotion people pass as if on parade,
actors and spectators on the same stage…!

124. (X.89 free sonnet with two optional extra lines)

      The seasons circle 
like vultures espying prey
hidden in the rain 
that washes all things away…

On the peak of our youth
running waters mingled and merged
then went their more separate ways…

Down different valleys,
sometimes moving closer together,
sometimes passing further away…

Then on to the plain in our old age
branches of these rivers re-met
on the slow edge of time,
melding together, overlapping, kissing…

…before meeting that inevitable sea…

There embraced for all eternity…!

125. (X.89 free sonnet)

      On the bus two gay guys were arguing,
other folk in louder conversation,
a melodious medley of  mobiles
punctuating this chaotic assembly.
Dull undertones of rustling newspapers
tincture this cacophony with a dash
of white noise highlighted with the sharp crunch 
of packaged chips flavoured with vinegar…

      Through the fogged up window tried to escape,
trade in city life for a rural landscape
seen squatting in pots on a balcony;
exhausted by blasts of passing traffic –
a stillness of mind remained arrested,
without composure could see no poetry…?

126. (X.90 free sonnet)

      ‘We are moving up in the world’,
must be the thoughts of those guys celebrating 
as I espy their packed-out house-warming,
the crowd entertained with the latest 
techno trifles and a huge outdoor-indoor barbecue
parked out on a sixth floor balcony, 
the deluxe model guaranteed for a well-used
lifetime of at least twenty-five years…

      As I pass below the smell of burnt sausages
wafts past in abundance, thick black smoke
signals this late Sunday sacrifice
and no doubt on this hot afternoon the folk inside 
will feel lined up like the same upon the grill:
such is the stuff that dreams are made of….

127. (X.94 free sonnet with puns inserted into longer poem)

      “Find divine shadows traced out in fine relief,
a pair of dice seen in a perfumed garden,
a low-key country, a rural landscape,
‘wish you were here’ postcards de-signed in dream,
metal images that sought to be beheld
and holy icons scented delightfully,
a rose like a lotus, painted ‘pon a breeze,
with incense seek a value self-delivered.
Entranced entered a sacred exit to see,
re-emerging, the same vision, the same world,
now address the deities, only with clothes 
could they be barely imagined as naked;
contorted with surfaces of gilt, tarnished,
by deft hands loudly re-fashioned… altered…”

128a-c. (X.96a, b, c)

      The textual boundaries of my life 
have been defined in poems;
like high brick walls
around some ugly sanatorium…

O reader, help me to escape,
I implore you, uncover
this bed of sheets, 
release this book-bound soul..!

…with new pastures to ride upon,
fields filled with resilient flowers
no more confined to paper…

Shared memories re-sighted as fresh
as a breeze listening to the leaves
of an enchanted peach tree…!

      The textual boundaries of my life 
have been re-defined in poems;
as high, windowless, brick walls built
around some ugly sanatorium…

O reader, please, I implore you,
unlock, release this book-bound soul,
help me to uncover, escape
from this pale bed of printed sheets..!

…with new pastures to ride upon,
frosty fields with resilient flowers
no more confined to mere paper…

…shared memories seen re-sighted 
like a breeze heard listening to leaves
re-enchanting an old peach tree…!

      The textual boundaries of my hapless life 
have been defined and described in poems;
as high, windowless, brick walls thickly built
around some ugly, run-down sanatorium…

O reader, I implore you, please unlock, 
release this bent, dishevelled book-bound soul,
help me to uncover, make an escape,
leave behind this pale bed of printed sheets..!

…with new pastures freely ridden upon,
frosty fields filled with resilient flowers
no more confined in time to mere paper…

…shared memories re-met, re-sighted anew
like a soft breeze heard listening to the leaves
enchanting an old peach tree’s silent view…

129. (X.97 free sonnet)

      Where unseen tears come from is a mystery,
but their well should not be allowed to dry,
be desiccated, cracked like desert mud 
in the harsh light of some unfeeling sun
wrapped in cold blankets of dull indifference…

So I marched to the beat of a different drum
and bridged a gulf hitherto crossed only 
in a few glib words of thin commitment…

With self-contentment know you see my stand,
you saw me shiver in the winter dawn,
keep a silent counsel, learn to smile, walk out
with others in the same hopeful direction…

Who may y’ be that wishes to judge me?

None but those big, wet eyes beaming proudly…!

130. To Bill And Simon On Attaining Their Fortieth Birthdays

      Those aged threads in gold and silver dyed,
and rose-faded, like those pale, flushed cheeks, tell
how petals, once youth-filled, yet still borne well,
abstracted in geometries deftly plied,
have managed to stand those treading feet that slide
upon this crafted surface forever playful
with arabesques between medallions noble;
all bordered in an edged frame no art denied.
      Friendship be like this antique carpet here,
a fabric knotted, woven in time and space
with such wonderful patterns that retrace
those tales of life now given a rugged air.
      But with this twist - though mats have their own room 
they ne'er leave the Divine hand that moves this loom.

Commentary

l1: threads = hair, gold = blond, silver = white.
l2: flushed - not red but faded, pale white; indicating old age (with the implication of death... died/dyed)..
l3: borne well = born well/well born (= `noble').
l5: joke - carpet `stands' those treading feet, and those `treading feet' don't stand they `slide,' i.e., the carpet is worn smooth even though with age it is now `rugged.'
l6: this line is being playful, 12 syllables.
l8: end of octet: note the repetition of `border,' `edge,' `frame.'
l9: is the octet really just a description of a carpet?
l10: the simile is explained.
l12: joke - play on the word `rugged.'
l13: carpets can get twisted, but the couplet has a twist which really straightens out this simile that `friendship is like a carpet' through the qualification therein declared.
l13-14: Friendship = relationship, each relationship is unique, i.e., has its own room. Qualification that although carpets/relationships appear in separate rooms these `mats'/relationships are both still being woven and all united by the hand of the Divine/i.e., the relationship of all relationships. Allusion to the New Testament saying "in my Father's house there are many mansions/rooms." Why `many'? Because there are many, many more relationships than the mere number of persons so interrelated... but that is just one theological interpretation (of this sonnet).…