Some theatre each day keeps the doctor away…

Sonnet 4

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Who was it that said you don’t finish a poem, but abandon it?  Smart man (or woman), they were.  I tinkered with the sonnet for another hour or so tonight, I think.  Not sure if it’s any better than it was before, but I think it might be.

I dream of eyes when I have thoughts of you,
Of yours, of mine, of how they’ve ne’er quite met;
Our glances rare as tardy slumber’s dew,
And peeks too fleet for confirmation’s net.
Oh God!, how I still long to look in front
Those pupils strange, those irae blue, those gates
With guards forlorn.  Hopes too, hopes few, your brunt
Portcullis joy – like winter’s thaw – dilates
One day, one morn…  Yet sparrow sight Fate’s writ,
For love would not be love if eyes were brave,
Nor would these bed-stoked pangs glow high for it
To come, to stay, and sleepless hours save.
But when a love comes slow, its strength hits skies;
So next we meet I swear I’ll greet your eyes.

“Irae” is the plural of “iris” instead of “irises”.  And  I realised soon after writing it that it also is spelt the same as in “dies irae”.  Damn it.  I’d say my version “eye-ray”, though.  I had thought of spelling it “iriae”, but that’s even more confusing.  Whatever.

Looking back through the blog to see what number the last sonnet was (and therefore, by the addition of one numerical unit, what the number of this new sonnet should be), I discovered that I watched the first act of Parsifal the night I posted it.  Clearly the anticipation of, or the actual act of watching, a Wagner opera brings out the poet in me.  Watched the first act of Die Valkyrie (or however it’s spelt – I have a feeling i got that wrong if I was trying to spell it in German), and thoroughly enjoyed it.  Here was the Wagner that I heard in The Flying Dutchman, a Wagner that was somewhat absent, I think, from Das Rheingold.


Written by epistemysics

August 1, 2013 at 3:21 pm

Posted in Uncategorized

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