There is something more than love which makes mere love seem plain. Here is a sonnet from my heart which will these things explain…
This is not love; it is some other thing
More wonderful and more than twice as wide.
Compared to this, love is the underling
And any shrill complaints unjustified.
My love she has a way of drawing things
From me like a fisherman pulls his fish
From the icy waters (sirens will sing).
Then to be served up on a golden dish.
Her delicate fingers circle the reel;
Winding the bait through the length of the line.
Turning and ratcheting all that I feel;
Sending it hurtling through air (serpentine).
Here’s a sonnet I wrote to a lover 27 years ago. (Just click on the title below). I was so foolish in those days. Nothing much has changed…
Sometimes I feel your sunlight move away;
I fade and I grow cold and lifeless leaves
On limbs outstretched; in darkened skies there grieves
A dying tree for fields in which we lay.
Ice crystals fell down from the sky that night
But that was when the moon had flown more huge.
[Its face a look of shock (or was it fright)
At all the futile stealth and subterfuge].
After circling in the snow (footprints new),
We climbed the spiral stairway (silent sighs).
Out of breath, our anticipation grew –
How hard it was maintaining the disguise!
The Sonnet is my favourite poetic form. I love the discipline and logical flow. 14 lines. 10 syllables on each line. Rhyming according to which school one follows (or I often make my own rhyming pattern). Here are two examples from my oeuvre: