A Meeting of Minds

[ghyle]

G'day!

Why, you ask, is this thread named after the board? Because it's not: it's named after the title of my latest verse project.

Let me explain....

Last night, sleepless in bed, I started thinking of poems, specifically, who could I dedicate more poems to. Then it hit me: people from MOM. In a book. Of sonnets. Of various sorts. Titled, obviously--A Meeting of Minds: Sonnets.

So, this morning, before I got up, I started on the initial sonnet and I've posted it here for your critiques.

ciao!

Light bends in water, nearer to glass:
it seems that the pen I stick in refracts,
is distorted; time bends and minutes pass

and past this world of bodies, being, facts
there lies another freed where minds meet--
cast of our unique play, together act....

Minutes fade to hours, and each day is sweet
in company. Come, let us gather, mind
to mind in concord. Come, time is fleet

all together we will discover, find
worlds of discourse, worlds to enjoy together,
time to share and be as true as our kind

can be-join us a moment, gather treasure
with silken paths and threads, to weave our pleasure.

[RefugeInPern]

Sounds good to me!
What's the definition of a sonnet?

[ghyle]

In English prosody:

1) 14 lines with set rhyme schemes;
2) lines of ten syllables, five stressed;
3) metre is lines of one unstressed syllable followed by a stressed, repeated.

The example above is a terza rima sonnet.

[edith]

The pen doesn't refract! the pen doesn't refract!!!
the light does!
nice sonnet though!

[RefugeInPern]

Originally Posted by edith

The pen doesn't refract! the pen doesn't refract!!!
the light does!
nice sonnet though!

I guess that's why he wrote it seems to refract

[c_ris]

very nice ghyle!

[Saphirdrache]

That was very lovely ghyle! such wonderful imagery!
like a wine's developing flavour, it leaves such warm afterthoughts.

[ghyle]

The basic idea for the book is that I'll be writing sonnets, none Anne related, and dedicating them to people on here; under their real names, though, not the ones we post with.

[granath]

I like it! It really flows, in spite of the lines breaking in the middle of a sentence. Reminds me of the 5 word story.

[Kater]

Very nice ghyle!! You have such a wonderful way with words!!!

[ghyle]

Originally Posted by granath

It really flows, in spite of the lines breaking in the middle of a sentence.

That's called enjambment--it means that the sense of the line flows on over the end, rather than stopping (ending the sense, as with a full stop, etc., makes what are called end-stopped lines).

What I might do, on thinking, is posting the poems up here as I write them, but to your current aliases; then, when I'm ready to see it into print, those who want to can ask me to use their real names, for privacy, and security reasons.

Next up: sonnets for Granath....

[ghyle]

Here's the sonnet to Granath.

The country is green: trees, grasses and herbs
melt in profusion into a fair haze
of spring, summer and autumn nights and days
where creatures rustle, hide, and singing birds;

then winter comes. The snow is animate:
it falls and flutters, flies, accumulates,
and round within this scene coagulates
in cover impassive, white, intimate.

The land hibernates under the snow, bound
by cold and cover. Yet, when spring arrives,
snow fades to nothing and streams, and the lives
of country creatures wake to cuckoos' sounds.

Though drear the snow may dwell upon us, stark,
spring will return with joy to swell your heart.

Let me know what you think of it dear Granath; if you feel it's unsuitable, please let me know, K?

[ghyle]

I've only started to catch up on transcribing my backlog of poems.

Here are two: it should be obvious to whom they are dedicated.

Books in their piles, and piles of books assemble
in heart and in dream, in home, case and reams
where everything sings, sings and ever seems
never to change, to sway, persuade or dissemble

without the must that signals lore of ages
past. Come, let us read, and let us now know
where words and thoughts and theories pass, and flow
untouched by pettiness, black woes or rages.

Books in their piles, together brought to thrill
knowledged readers brought to happiness’ hearth—
shall we not know the source of bliss, the garth
in which the wise will stroll, knowing no ill?

Books in their piles—a joy, a bliss, and we
two shall be blest; we read, no longer dree.

For Hans

***** ***** *****

Shall we ascend to stars, and shall we soar
upwards and onwards, shall we know the skies
wherein alien forms shall rise to fly
on pinions not seen by human eyes before?
Shall we ascend, and shall we now abjure
our dreams to wend towards dross we decry?
Shall we ascend, on kingly wings, as nye,
or else as herds of nilgai? Tell me, more

if under sun or stars we rise to seek
what we seek; say, and let us know, lest stray
we under skies, we ever worn and weak—
come and ascend, as neither cat nor rat,
come and ascend, in hope and ever may
we soar ‘neath stars and moons, as owl or bat.

For Bats

[bats]

AWWWWW!!, Bats is touch,how did you know I'm a Grounded Astronaut.,
so clever of you,I tried to make sweet words come out like you,,,BUT,,
all I got 21456798765432256879890098765432 ,just numbers
Bats

[Hans]

Thanks Ghyle. You're a veritable wordsmith

[ghyle]

The gardener loves the garden; see, she tends
tenderly plants of all kinds, bloom and leaf
alike. Gone like snow is the sting of grief:
spring embraces all, it has its own ends.

Butterfly and bee drift from bloom to bloom
in beauty. Look at her toil: sweat and care
alike a limpid grace bestow, and fair:
tranquillity reigns, banishing cares, glooms.

Lovers and laughter alike stroll, hand
in hand, making tableau. Boorishness finds
no place here: gentility rules, makes mind
meet mind in the garden’s idyllic lands.

Salute with glass the gardener, brave a toast
unto our fair arbiter, praiseworthy host.

For Cheryl

************************************************** ********

Though the ground may shake, fire may flow and seize
gardens and dwellings alike, floods may fall
on towns and fields, drowning and draining, tall
towering fires may fling to ash both trees
and dwellings, though these and others strike, seas
rage and break and rake in anger, befall
does pestilence, plague, war and rot, our fall
nonetheless comes, nonetheless makes us grieve

not for the fires, the floods, the seas and woes,
not for disease, destruction, even decay,
but for the deeds we failed to make; we mourn
not for the evil done to others, no,
not for the words we’d let in anger sway
our hearts, no; mourn we our raptures unborn.

For AnnMarie

[Cheryl]

Wow, Ghyle, these are great! Why didn't we read poetry like this in school? Your poetry, I can appreciate.

[Kath]

I'd guessed you were talented, Ghyle, but... wow!

[Kater]

How wonderful Ghyle!! What a wonderful way to spend an afternoon reading your words.

[ghyle]

The last of my catch-up material:--

Aprication’s sweet: dozing under sun
and within light, as cats perhaps, please
themselves during the day. Even the trees
seem to extend themselves, basking, and under
their boughs, their shadows ground themselves. One
reason extends itself—sweet it’s to seize
pleasure whether through skin or sun, by seas
or in leas, parks, yards, or anywhere fun.

Imagine cats, drowsy, basket-clad
or no, stretching sensuously, paws wide,
within a dash of sunlight stretching, glad
at being—simple pleasures bring their sweet
treasures to cats truly languorous-eyed
that revel, excel at basking in sweet heat.

For Kater

************************************************** ********

Creature of night, and thrall of spilt moonlight,
have you come close to waken animal dreams
within me? Wherefore the beast, weaving schemes
almost feral, fierce in the shades of night?
May shadows embrace you, cat, wrap their way
around sinuous shoulders, liquid grace
and around the way you walk with fair pace
unfurling. At night, they say, all are grey.

Eyes that speak with the sphinx, smile with the sly,
ears that hear all, and a consummate style,
footsteps as soft as passing seconds, flair,
counsels kept, hieratic mysteries wise,
athletic grace and pace, magnetic guile—
all these qualities mark your savour faire.

For Sassie

[SecretFantasy85]

wow, that's so good Ghyle. I'm not a poetry person by nature but this I could get into, just cause it's about people I know and have seen around here. It just leaves a warm feeling all over after I read each one

[Greenrider Tresa]

Wow, these really are great, Ghyle.
I thought I was good, but when it comes to writing about others, I'm nowhere near as good as you. Don't like doing sonnets at all.




Tresa

[bisbe]

Very nice! And I usually don't read poetry but I could yours.

[Kater]

Ghyle,

Please let us know when ever you have a book published! You are truely wonderful!!

[ghyle]

All of my life, I’ve known the southern sky,
its moon, planets and stars. When a young boy,
I’d often put aside the latest toy,
stretch up and try to touch the stars there, high

above me. Every time was fruitless, vain.
I longed to know their secrets, read each word
I could find, buy or borrow, dreamt God heard
my prayers for knowledge. Only, what I gained

was failure. Still, although I soon realised
I’d never give my life to stars, and know
the secrets behind all their lore, I’d go
and read what I could, keep open my eyes.

I may not be the best, but still I love
each star, planet, moon, circling above.

For C_ris

[c_ris]

wow! Thanks ghyle!

thats a wonderful poem!

[Radar]

Ghyle, I'm left speechless after reading your poems.