First, the inspiration for this poem:
I’ve held a lifelong love of birds. I’ve owned many (among my mother, sister, and me, we’ve had parakeets, lovebirds, cockatiels, an African grey, moluccan cockatoo, double-yellow naped Amazon, and a blue & gold Macaw), my grandfather used to feed and watch the birds around his house (binoculars and the Audubon’s field guide to north American birds (which I inherited) were never Continue reading →
I tried another sonnet today, Spenserian this time.
“Infestation: A Sunshine Sonnet”
Warm sun upon back as these lines I write,
Seeping through flesh and into my soul
Lodging there, festering without invite
Where it defeats my inner gloom patrol.
Each ray makes pores for gladness a wormhole,
Through which peace creeps, infesting me to core
With serenity from my crown to sole,
Granting me the ease to shadows ignore.
Sunshine casts me in form of troubador,
And thus I write of that which me infests.
Now, tarry a bit longer I implore,
Hoping darkness within, the sun arrests.
Spring’s infestation of sunshine warm
My whole perspective does seem to transform.
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed–and gazed–but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Nothing very good; i seem a bit distracted and scattered, struggling to produce anything of value. But, I’m still writing and participating, and here’s today’s entry if you’re interested.
Spring has finally sprung.
Flora begins again to flourish.
There are but few clouds above.
Sunshine warms air and ground.
Gentle breezes play in the trees.
Cool grass tickles beneath toes.
Birds sing happily for you.
In this moment all is well.
What have you to be sorry for?
If you’ve gotten this far, apologies! haha XD
God, i remember that night as if it were yesterday. So beautiful; it was one of those moments. I can’t believe it was 5 years ago. I did exactly whatyou will read: sat in the dark, feeling and writing. Nothing spectacular, really, just thoughts as i observed my greatest Muse. Only later did i decipher overlapping lines, across pages, of nearly illegible scrawl….:
Walking home at dusk while a spring thunderstorm is born. It is raining lightly, and each raindrop falls inescapably on my face like cold needles. Rarely have I ever felt so refreshed and cleansed.
Later, when it was storming in earnest, I stepped out out into the darkness and forces of nature to smoke a cigarette, where the cool wind caressed me and held me in its embrace, yet did not touch me. I was warmed against the chill by a warmth coming from inside, completely independent of the weather around me. Now I have deigned to bring a chair, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter to scribble away blindly in my notebook and write purely from the heart. And to be a silly, stoned hippie and enjoy the look, sound, smell, and feel of this night. It smells so fresh. A sign of great powers long dormant reawakening. It is so inspiring. I am completely awed by the power of a simple storm, of nature, for the first time in far too long for such a beautiful, amazing occurrence. I stare around myself, stunned by the beauty. Thunder rocks through me, my entire body and being, and lightning streaks across my vision, blinding me. All the forces of life seem to envelope me. My mind is freed. Not only by substance, but by the simple act of writing in near darkness, not even looking at it, but writing directly from what my eyes are seeing and my heart is feeling, not caring or knowing how it will come from the tip of my pen. Again, for right now, this is enough, and it is all of me.
Sitting here, it is altogether thrilling, comforting, and frightening to spectate on nature left to itself. The sounds of frogs, crickets, falling rain, rolling thunder, and the occasional crack of lightning is the most beautiful symphony I could hope to hear. We should try to spend more time secloistered with nature. It tames the mind to a state of inner tranquility. We should not let life stress, tire, and enslave us so much that we miss the beauty of the world around us. We need daily time to be at peace, to just be still and listen to the music of the earth and be soothed. Even in the turmoil of a thunderstorm there is a certain peace. All is as it should be. The world is waking up again, and it is a new beginning.
I look on with such sadness as people shuffle hurriedly to their cars with heads ducked down against the rain and chill, ignorantly missing this beautiful display of nature of which we are fortunate enough to bear witness. They miss the simple pleasure of locating the stars and moon under a veil of clouds as the thunderstorm fades away.
I feel so blessed to have had this experience tonight. I do feel an exquisite joy, but there is also an exquisite sorrow. As always, it seems that I have a masochist’s curse to always feel pleasure accompanied with pain. I wish I could share this experience with someone, anyone, who appreciates it and aches to take it all in the way I do. When I’m with them, I try to make other people see it and appreciate it the way I do, but they just don’t get it. They don’t feel the way I do. They look at exactly what I am, but they don’t see it, they don’t feel it. They look at it, then back to me with an inquiring eye and ask, “so?”
That breaks my heart.
Open your eyes!
Every morning when I wake up, I experience an exquisite joy.
That is how I want to live my life…
Stony earth, cold as winter’s wind,
Softens under spring’s warm sun.
Frozen streams resume seaward trek,
Dormant trees awake and quicken,
Budding forth to hail new season.
Birds sing of their joyous return,
Awakening winter’s slumberers.
Soon shall brittle browns of dead things
Turn to gold, life resurrected.
Showers will fall and sun shall rise,
Nourishing all Earth’s children.
We shall be cleansed and renewed.
May we try harder, reach higher.
This time may we tour the heavens.
Plummeting skyward, may we soar
Away from our hellish abyss,
Leave the depths behind and below.