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  157.     

Alankar (Decor) -12

What Sort Is He, Bitter Or Sweet....(sonnet-shakespearen style)

Shakespearean sonnet-
made up of 3 quatrains and ending in a rhymed couplet.
metric, written in iambic pentameter.
rhyme scheme is abab cdcd efef gg.


What sort is He, bitter or sweet to say
Pastime painter black and white, dark and bright
Alltime sadist by nature He His play
Pain or pleasure He seems be His pretext..

Ruing so dark a woman black she hued
Blighted a leaf as withers she shrivels
This day even ahead on stairs cultured
Accursed, a bad society she feels

And look, laughing pride yet another one
Glowing outside fair with conceit inside
This day that all wish for union one
Dispairs her fair skin dark on rungs down slide

Writhing in mind a worm hunting His sort
In vain blaming, praising, admits His sport
 
Indira Renganathan

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  158.     

A Poet And River

A stream I am struggling with tears,
Blocked on way mine by a boulder stone,
And wonder how to move on my own,
How to flow unhindered free from fears.

A poet I am singing my heart,
To heart cleave I and in heart believe,
To head’s devil my due still I give,
Two pillars and yet two poles apart!

An endless duel raging within,
What I wish to say be yon of words,
Words are all upon which I must lean,
Words and words, all wearing wings of birds,
A quenchless quench, dilemma of life,
There’s not but walking on edge of knife.
__________________________________________________
This piece uses a nine-syllabic (three feet) anapaest metre
unlike most sonnets that have ten-syllabic (five feet) iamb.
_________________________________________________________
- Sonnets | 21.08.14 |
 
Aniruddha Pathak

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  159.     

Once...

Once there was a page, with nothing on it,
So I took up my pen, and wrote a sonnet;
nothing special, but it rhymed,
and so I did it, one more time.

Poems are images that only I can see,
hope you can visualize as well as me;
it's written from the heart and soul,
afterward, I feel it makes me whole.

To set in rhyme the things I feel,
to others of a kind, it must reveal;
they're not alone upon this earth,
creating poems is actually giving birth.

The pregnancy is short and sweet,
as we put words upon the sheet;
to set our troubled minds at ease,
as we write as many as we please.

Once there was a page, with nothing on it,
so I sat at my P.C., and wrote a sonnet;
I tried to get my point of life across,
and if I didn't, it was my only loss.
 
David Lessard

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  160.     

Della Robbia And Other Things

to a dry fountain

small birds came to drink
when holes were punched in a daylight sky
and the blue of old plaster flew as if it were the wind.

and an eggshell quiet shattered in a dream
of the whispered sonnets

freezing through the trees

and I said only, I do not lie
to the dry fountain where the small birds came to drink

in the Park you may remember or not at all.

and a small twig breaks that was already broken
and nothing scurries through the last leaves on the ground

where small birds shiver near a glazed stream

or lodge in the holes punched in the sky

and sing through the end of the punches thrown
in delicate aqua or marine

where an eggshell quiet shattered in a dream

of the whispered sonnets freezing through the trees

and the ghost of Mary Stuart counting all her beads

deliver my blue soul from the cracked marble of the world

mary angela douglas 31 january 2013
 
mary douglas

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