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Sonnets  -  Book V (Plus Supplement)

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The Beaming Moon

Being A Cycle of Thirteen Sonnets on the Theme of Love

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This book of sonnets is dedicated to 

S.

Who has had more than one form through time,

And,

With grateful thanks to

David Ritchie

Along with the good ears and grace 

Of a number of my friends….

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Preface

	What follows is a few brief words on each sonnet…

1.	Another exercise in writing a regular sonnet. Note the play on words written in italics. The theme of cheating is explored – just who is being cheated when the world of others is involved? At least three simultaneous readings here?

2.	A sonnet dealing with a vast variety of parallelisms and contra-parallelisms. The final couplet being a pseudo textual-like citation with at least three narrative interpretations… A pun on ‘scented’ reinforcing the tantric subtext of this poem.

3.	A love sonnet (as if there could be any other?).

4.	A sonnet that looks at the ‘space’ between music, food, drink and love.

5.	In each of my sonnet cycles I always have one that enters a depressed mood seemingly without hope of salvation. Note the theme of wine is linked before and after this particular sonnet. But perhaps this sonnet is not without some small degree of hope… is the lover savoured by the beloved, is there a succession of rebirth?

6.	Another catalogue sonnet with a repetition of themes between octave and sestet but from a different angle and in a more vague, surreal style. The paradox of the orgasm, first three words of the last line, is looked at phenomenologically. The last line could be interpreted as being said from three points of view – from the point of view of the lover, the beloved and the relationship itself.

7.	Once more I have echoed (through misprision) one of my favourite poem by Walt Whitman, When I Heard at the Close of Day.

8.	A sonnet with a stellar flavour.

9.	Is the beloved a poet or not a poet? A sonnet that introduces the theme of suffering.

10.	And now a completely depressed poem (the stage having been set by the sonnet “The juice of wine within this crystal glass” and explicitly hinted at in the last sonnet’s last line “Only in life’s workshop, suffering, learns….”). The last line is ambiguous – hinting at suicidal ideation? But, overall, the total effect, perhaps, is more comical?

11.	We are told why the lover suffers. The sestet plays upon the theme of moonbeams as taken up in sonnet no. 7, itself a play on a poem by Walt Whitman; a theme addressed one more time in the eleventh sonnet (and then, again, in the thirteenth).

12.	A sonnet that tries to undo the disappearance of the beloved in sonnets numbered 10. & 11.

13.	The final sonnet in the sequence of thirteen (because I cannot count) – but is it real or only a dream? It is also a play on poem no. 11, itself a play on poem no. 7, itself a parody, in sonnet form, on a poem by Walt Whitman as noted above.

14.	This poem was written before this cycle and has been placed in the Supplement. An exercise in writing a regular sonnet. Note the suppression of rhythm in the words ‘sweetly unblinking’. The third last line plays with synaesthesia, a motif taken up in a number of my poems.

A satire on (doing) philosophy in three sonnets constructed out of a series of non-strict (mock mock-heroic) couplets. In these experimental ‘sonnets’ there is a minimalistic transformational migration of rhythmic patterns insinuating a series of rhetorical elements through intonational inflections (borrowed from conversational speech).

	I have numbered the poems at the end of each work (in the same fashion as Sanskrit poems are numbered). The first bracketed number is the position in this cycle, followed by the Supplement. The second number is its position in Vol XII Book 2. The third number in square brackets is a chronologically-oriented number given, in sequence, to all my sonnets, whether strict or free or in between in form.

							  Noël Tointon, Sydney, 18.6.03.

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In simple gestures shown you made it known
Your love is mine to dig… or deeply reap
The sweet reward in signs that I should keep
In whose embrace his kiss could I now own;
All said without the trace of words on loan,
Their clear intent from longing face did seep
With subtle silent cries up bubbling, leap
With promise hinted at in haunting tone?
But sadness so be mine to harvest too
For in this hardened heart I here must lie,
Ignore his suit with eyes that cannot meet
And yet give no offence, enjoy the view,
Like the tourist he be, although I sigh 
And say to self "it would be me… to cheat…." (1) (XII.2.9) [149]

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My tantric master-mistress of my heart;
Whose Cheshire smile alone has staked his claim;
Whose lips and ivory teeth completely tame
This soul as his, has secret signs that chart
One course, one love, one pact to never part…
With innate promises that sweet proclaim
In letters sealed that Night may sing his name
Within his holy courts… till death depart…
A rosy Sun will soon be borne aloft
While jasmine Moon has sailed o’er edges soft 
Of clouded world below where hand in hand
Our love divides on sleep's deep dreaming sand…
To wake, and walk, and watch, now arm and arm,
As breezy heaven sighs one scented psalm…. (2) (XII.2.19) [150]

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By fated die am I no star of screen,
Nor wealthy magnate seated on ten boards,
Nor mentioned noble in a House of Lords,
Not once on wireless aired, nor tv been,
No photo shot in press or magazine,
No tragic actor pricked by paper swords,
Only a poet, winning no awards,
A part-time scribbler still unheard, unseen…
Yet you have found in me a worthy star,
A man to share your fortunate estate,
In your sweet looks you see a princely sight,
Announce your love, and your constant delight,
Prefer to meet me in the flesh innate,
Without pretence inspire my pen… so far…! (3) (XII.2.22) [151]

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If music be the food of love play on…
But now know not if I should be that score,
Or player too, or if played on as more
Mere instrument, in ecstasy, anon,
Banged drum or harpsichord reborn in bon
Ravalement or soft blown flute, implore
A deft angelic harp with pedals for
Those needed notes within a newer tone.
But, so confused am I that, thankfully,
My skilful Love knows well to wise conduct
The pure perfection of our symphony,
A wine to be long savoured without waste,
A bouquet full of tunes from ether plucked,
An instant banquet blessed with constant taste…. (4) (XII.2.27) [152]

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The juice of wine within this crystal glass
Has fled as from the shattered bottle bought,
As from the wooden cask in hewn oak sought
To catch the grapes no longer made to pass
Beneath those feet in vats well stomped en masse,
Then through mesh sieve and tank and channelled caught
To wait its time, ferment, till patient brought
To perfection and, packaged, wine shop past.
Congealed in dregs my life like clotted blood 
It seems is same way aged and treated so,
Upon this skin is stamped a branded name
Then drunk one day beneath his lips aglow,
Savoured, I think, and noticed with small fame
Till took no more except by fire and mud…! (5) (XII.2.28) [153]

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Charmer of snakes, a sculptor of desire;
Scientist thou art and alchemist too;
Sure rider of wild horses, marksman true;
Spirited sage ascending silver wire;
Deep searching shaman dreaming he’s on fire;
A yogin wise with wisdom through and through;
Though now no more mere boy, yet in review
The whole world sees a soul they must admire.
Manly serpent, mere mask in dying throes;
The eyes near shut, with mouth and magic lips
Decanting spells that he no longer hears;
Heated the sigh now shot from heaving hips;
Entranced his self descends, and disappears…
Alone, yet one… till kissed by welcome nose…. (6) (XII.2.29) [154]

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In darkened room no moon-light beams to see,
To shine upon his finely chiselled face,
In depths of night no flood of tidal race
To lap the shore where city traffic flee,
With distant sound of dogs no crickets be
In song this late on leafy frosted lace,
While drunken louts and broken glass in chase
The sky has bolted thunder clapping me…
I stretch and take a bow as he awakes
From gentle sleep, without desire for fame,
I only seek in his good grace my name
On his full lips, all else no difference makes…
As we embrace he whispers soft to me
“Its time to kiss… declaim real poetry….” (7) (XII.2.30) [155]

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The winking stars still hold their mystery,
Thick books may number them as they appear,
Old tomes declare the gods be dancing there;
With partners some whilst others single be,
Yet more trace out the shapes of destiny;
Each twinkling light in tints and tones will bear
A spectral semblance spread throughout the year
To woven rugs hand-made with mastery…
And born beneath these signs like grains of sand
Have found each blinking soul a living land
Of charm soon lost or won by luck or trial,
Once laid quick worn away to weakened pile,
Unravelled, all with story, yet ‘tis true
Though each unique who’s more divine than you..?! (8) (XII.2.32) [156]

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I sing to you fine praises, you sing mine,
But now before your holy haloed frame 
Must beg and borrow my poor verse from same,
To twist syntax betwixt semantic line
And steal and drink your rarest, literal wine,
To bask within your moonlit bardic fame
A poorer sun am I, ought you to shame
My meagre fruits retold in your design…
Without one word on whispered breath be said
Now know your poetry cannot be heard
With earthly ears, nor read, for ‘tis absurd
That soul on sound could secretly be fed
And yet what taste the connoisseur discerns
Only in life's workshop, suffering, learns…! (9) (XII.2.33) [157]

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Damp, darkest depths of winter see a deep
Silence still-born between the storms each week
That wrack this wreck of coast denuded bleak
Re-soaking rock-faced lichens left to seep,
While trees, dismal, leave-less grey… shivering reap 
The rain and morning dew from each pale cheek
Of twig, rough branch and rounded trunk to leak
On rooted mud this flood of tears to weep.
I pace the pavement cold of inner court
With mindless broom to hand to while away
Those thoughts of loss with heavy head bent down
And know the scented camellias crown
Each bush with blooming reds and pinks in play
Since sweep of brush reveals their death now sought…. (10) (XII.2.36) [158]

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To South so cold my bird of love had flown,
Then, North, on long vacation overseas
To warmer climes on heated winds he flees
Without one wave goodbye… my luck has blown
Away like salted spray on oceans sown
By wicked winds of fate that wedded seize
This fickle soul afloat upon a breeze
In storms unseen in turmoil deep within.
I wake and think my love asleep once more
Upon the vacant pillow caught by rays
Of falling moonlight beams but, blinking, spy
Him not, no more; mere dreaming habit plays
Upon the heart and naught upon the eye,
An absent love too hard to long ignore…. (11) (XII.2.37) [159]

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Today, a postcard in the mail I find:
"Please forgive me," it said, in printed score,
And sealed in envelop my name it bore -
"I love you still" writ boldly underlined,
“I had no wish to be so quite unkind,
Then had no heart to tell what plans in store
For me arranged in destined marriage saw…”
And ended where his magic name was signed…
“Mere pawns are most whilst others, great, be kings
Or queens, or frocked bishops, rooks, wild knights free;
Alas, my hand was sold behind my back,
My country suffers still such ancient things
But now with family, first son named for thee,
Re-seek your rail to set my life on track….” (12) (XII.2.38) [160]

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In shaded glade we walked and talked entwined,
Embraced by fated rays of dusty light
Sent streaming down betwixt the flapping flight
Of fan-tailed birds in chorus sharp, notes signed
Above the bass of bubbling brook we find
To slake our fevered thirst for speech… and sight,
And still the years between did seem but night…
Two forms astride a log yet one in mind.
A darkness fell upon the ground re-set
By brilliant shafts of lunar majesty;
Through shaken tops of trees this diamond net -
A moving scene, a dream, a fantasy..?
As if in sleep we wake, who knows, but wise
Who sees that there lies truth where real truth lies..?! (13) (XII.2.39) [161]

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Supplement

Miscellaneous Sonnets (strict or free in form)

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      Skilfully brushed upon this fair forehead
Did dance most perfect locks of golden hair,
And eyes so sweetly unblinking that dare 
I look would fill my fearful thoughts with dread,
A painted picture pained with anguish bled,
A soul so proud of heart yet lost in prayer,
In deepest trance such looks engraved on air…
Bereft of love they seek a lover’s bed…
      I sigh… an aging print designed by one 
Great hand, the corner signed in smallest print 
"Edmund Dulac" - le maître de couleur
Whose silent shapes have caught in echoed fun
Such sad thoughts felt too deep to speak… yet hint
A world on fire still lit this very hour…. (14) (XII.2.2) [145]

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Plato(n) hated poetry - worldly imagery
Twice removed from heaven-sent reality;
Such hypocrisy - the old man would use
Mythology to teach truth steeped in lies….
"Bring back the poets", I say, pay them well,
Buy up their books and have them eager tell
The stories of a kind that make us men
And proud women too, and simple children…
Happy to run across a wild landscape
Awash with water draped with verdant shape,
Before, with burrowed brow, we find old books
And old books find us enthralled in their looks
Of sheer deceit, that musty leaves should see
Hoary white men talking so pointlessly…! (14.a)

Must Aristotle meet his Prime Mover?
Have you worked through Plotin's entire oeuvre,
Discoursed on The Nature of Things, discussed
Locke's simple thoughts, shut the book with disgust,
Read Kant's categorical imperative
Whilst sipping an expensive aperitif,
Debated Husserl's and Heidigger's 'world’
Or be by the design of dasein hurled…
Into death-bound projects not quite your own,
Entombed in a body felt left alone,
Or, found yourself deranged by Derrida
When doing your deconstructions thought far
Too difficult to do without computer
Or Cartesian robot of the future…? (14.b)

Why do philosophy when it does you!
Is there no better way this world review,
A thousand books to read just to begin,
With enough paper to wrap a mountain,
Though a thoughtful present, a gold one too,
With enough disputes to melt an igloo,
And don't forget, in translation, cultures
From exotic East to Western ventures…
All poking fun at people's lack of wit,
Will make monkeys of us slow bit by bit - 
Laugh, know it's all a joke, a twisted plot,
A squeaky tool with purpose quite forgot:
A rusty lamp, behold its ornate handle,
In gloomy cave, admired by foolish candle..?! (14.c) (XII.2.18) [146, 147, 148]

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