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Poems On / About SONNET  9/14/2014 11:00:24 PM
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  117.     

And flowers shall mourn

Scarce for a moment a gloomy grimace,
A sad looking face nor curt countenance,
All-knowing smirk, nor haughty arrogance,
I wonder whence flowers get such good grace!

A child is born with angel’s easy grace,
This goodly grace soon to a grimace turns
As this human bud grows to get grown face,
And is ne’er the same till childhood returns.

Like humans some plants are wildly grown weeds,
Yet, while the weeds forest fragrance far spread,
We, human weeds, spread forth foulest of deeds,
Forcing all neighbourhood to turn its head.

An if one distant day a child is born
With a grimace of frown, flowers shall mourn!
______________________________________________________
A simple sonnet with three quatrains, abba/cdcd/efef,
and a Volta, rhyming gg.
______________________________________________________
- Sonnets | 09.02.07 |
 
Aniruddha Pathak

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  118.     

Focus on Springs

Eventually the mine closed,
where people worked for months
without a salary, the last of them leave the grounds,
and there’s a strong suspicion

that the new black owners took the profit into their own pockets,
refining the gold somewhere else outside of the company,
causing the company deliberately to break apart
and it is as if nobody can stop or want to stop this felony.

With stubble on their faces men stand in the streets
guarding cars in the hot sun
and they talk Afrikaans, it’s as if the blood clots in their veins
while life and all income stops for them,

where some even live in boxes on the street,
trying to find shelter in the open space behind a church.

[Reference: Sonnet – Uit Malvern (Sonnet – From Malvern) by S. J. Pretorius.]
 
Gert Strydom

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  119.     

But for my drooping chin

I was once told life is made or unmade
Not on what cards the fate from afar lays
Upon man’s lap, but on how well he plays,
On what happens nor on acts of heavens,
But more on what he does to what happens;
That destiny’s a lazy man’s charade.

So guided I set off my wars to win,
So knowing I let my life by me led,
Playing the game of life— with cards dealt in;
Yet, wanting cake to bake was left with bread,
Oft my cake was much less baked and more burnt;
My life’s lessons, all morals left unlearnt:
Perhaps I never knew to bake a cake,
My drooping chin bared my brand of poor make!
______________________________________________________________
A sonnet with an unusual rhyme scheme: abbccadedaffee.
_____________________________________________________
-Sonnets | 03.02.10 |
 
Aniruddha Pathak

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  120.     

ήE BARD OF AVON

On ώe land of kyngs
Stonde up a lovely citee
ήe cyte of ώe bet bard eure
Stonde up a for-old house
ήe hous of ώe bet bard eure
Eche angle of ώe house
Felte dimension of fifetende age
Eche rowm of ώe house
Felte ώe breath of hym blowynge
Euen Ik neuere loke thee
3et, thy soule stayeth in me
Euen Ik neuere touche thee
3et, thow hast been one in me
Thow hadde wryten opus fele-folde
ήey hadde been flowynge insyd of pulse
Thy opusses weren ώe bet golden eure
ήey flιow wiπ my blod to-gadere
Sonnets ώat thow makede
Could maken me lyf na ende
So softe thy sonnets obsesse my soule
Could maken me flye to ώe holi-palace

O my ώe meste honorare-abil kyng...
O my honorem kyng, William Shakespeare...
Thow art my beloved kyng
ώe kyng of bard is in thee
Thow art i-lyv in my soule
ώe 3ape soule is in thee
O ώe Bard of Avon...
O William Shakespeare...


- Andhy Shakespeare



MC1106-2053
Copyright © 2013 Andhy Shakespeare. All rights reserved
 
Andhy Shakespeare

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