#28 - Full Circlet

Beside the moon his frightened, banished guest

scrawled symbols on the sky to soothe her soul,

dreamed of the worm that swallows itself whole–

the worm that grew within her troubled breast.

She cried out to the dark: “Please grant me rest

and coin to pay the weary traveller’s toll;

for every new beginning is a goal,

and every journey puts us to the test.

Give me a place to stand and, by your leave,

like Archimedes I would bend my back

to shape the cosmos as it slowly cools–

a circlet of the heavens I should weave,

a diadem of fire upon the black–

if I had time and all the proper tools.”

RJT

#27 - After Life & Before Death

A fallen woman, falling further still

into the depths where fire and brimstone glow.

The Devil sadly sighs “you'll have to go

for Hell is full, too many men to grill”

So up she climbs that ancient starry hill

to Heaven's gate. A silent bleak plateau

of clouds and broken harps, the place has closed,

no saints to gossip with, no holy chill.

But then the moon to her begins to speak

“you'd better go back home, kid, go back home”

and then the moon begins to cry and shriek

“I'm all alone, my love, I'm all alone.”

She has nowhere to be and so she rests

beside the moon, his frightened banished guest.

AW

#26 - Cross Bones and Winchester Geese

Those priests, on priestly late night love affairs,
Sew nepotism in their merry wake,
And sons of clergy – who are on the make –
Will wash away the scent of earthly cares.
It is not right that bishops should sire heirs
When celibacy is the vow they take.
A simple promise, easy now to break,
When tempted by a lady’s downy hairs.
And will the priest be thrown out for his sins?
Or will redemption cast a kindly gaze?
'Twas woman let the lustful devils in,
She'll have no respite from this moral maze.
Her unmarked grave on such a lonely hill:
A fallen woman, falling further still.

#25 - Cardinal Sin

for Keith O’Brien

Those whispered words that make a marriage bed

are less important than which naughty bits

you’ve got, that’s what the bishop said.

A set of each is fine, he says, but it’s

more problematic when they’re all the same:

no jousting willies, that’s verboten, kids;

those lady bits he hesitates to name

are likewise to be clearly kept apart,

lest God get squeamish. But, he claims,

if you’re at evening worship when it starts

(the inappropriate touching, not the prayer),

well, God’s OK with that, because His heart

has room enough and grace enough to bear

those priest-on-priestly late night love affairs.

AB

#24 - Always Fuck a Poet

Hoping that you’ll accept this lame excuse,

I offer up an honest, heartfelt plea

for you to understand, for you to see

that those to truly blame, of course, are Zeus

and his nine daughters – fickle offspring, whose

entreaties and delights have driven me

into the sweet embrace of poetry.

And every poet has his favourite muse:

“Erato! You bewitch me with your charms;

you tempt me, and then bind me with a spell

which slowly, surely, wraps me in your arms.

Erato! You have taught your pupil well.”

My mistress whispers that we should be wed–

those whispered words that make a marriage bed.

RJT

#23 - Disclaimer

We will not take responsibility

if reading any of our sonnets causes

injury, confusion, erections, jaws

to drop, a shock that makes you spit your tea,

smashing of keyboards, boredom, sanity,

madness, enjoyment, vigorous applause,

laughter, lamenting, sprouting fur and claws,

sudden lactation, public nudity.

We're only poets, following the words

until we're lost amid their ancient dance

of rhyme and metre, our intentions blurred

and dizzy, swept along by fiendish trance.

We're only poets, setting sonnets loose,

hoping that you'll accept this lame excuse.

AW

#22 - Article 17

The actors change, the play remains the same:
The story undulates beneath our hands.
A well-worn narrative. The shifting sands
Of circumstance that writhe. Forget my name!
I am but archetype - a mighty claim
From one who knows this life was never planned,
Who snaps the threads of fate, who severs strands
Of duty with my mind's destructive flame.
For we've been taught to envy and despise,
Instead of celebrating all we are.
We find the face of greed in every guise,
Our lungs are blocked by jealousy's black tar.
We'll download all experience for free.
We will not take responsibility.

LM

#21 - Abstract and brief chronicles

The wheel rolls on, and we roll with it – too

wrapped up in cycles that we can’t control

our appetite, that swallows stories whole:

forever craving News that must be New.

New! Man on doorstep filmed by camera crew –

New! Politician lies while selling soul –

New! Once fit woman, now declared a troll –

New! Someone said a thing. It’s déjà vu

without the sense of existential dread;

like watching Hamlet, only then to find

it’s Murder of Gonzago on instead.

Try as you might, the VT won’t rewind –

it’s endless, like the ticker, top of frame:

the actors change, the play remains the same.

AB

#20 - Time is a Trickster

Like wilted petals we will sit, and grieve
for golden summers gone, and childhoods lost
beneath a blanket of relentless frost.
But tears are fruitless, weeping is naïve:
Time is a trickster – he will always thieve
those precious, fleeting moments when star-cross'd
young lovers meet in bowers; when the cost
is counted in the passions we achieve.
Yet spring returns, and summer's rainbow haze
will spread across familiar fields once more,
as grinning Time grants us a few more days
to heal our hurts, and mend what went before.
The wheel rolls on, it clears the path anew;
the wheel rolls on, and we roll with it too.

RJT

#19 - Flowers & Kisses

The petals wilt, as petals often do,

mildewed and loose they coat the window sill.

The lovers leave, as lovers often will,

it's just their way. There was a man I knew,

but never mind, I've known too many, too

many to care. The petals wilt and spill.

Thinking about it now can make me ill

and blue, how can we know who will be true?

I don't know why I'm asking you, just nod

and water dying plants. I do not need

your pity, for I am a dwindled god

or some such former strength, I've made men plead,

oh please don't stare at me. The lovers leave

like wilted petals we will sit and grieve. 

AW

#18 - Chivalry

Where all the battles fought are in my head
There are no dragons left for me to tame.
My sword is blunt, my valiant steed is lame.
My armour, once bright white, has rusted red.
Those brave young knights, who guarded me, are dead
And I'm the one to shoulder all the blame.
Each laughing knave was pulled into the flame
By chivalry - where Angels fear to tread.
For seven years he kept her secret close,
The candle burning deep within his heart.
As delicate as any English rose
With thorns with strength to prise their love apart.
At winter's end - no beauty in the bloom.
The petals wilt, as petals often do.

#17 - On My Bedside Table

It’s best if you retreat between the sheets,

build quilted walls to shield you from the day;

the featherbed your castle, your retreat:

solitude’s fortress, keeping life at bay.

Just give me books, a duvet, and I’ll lay

here, safe from wars and wintery defeats,

wrapped up in Rome’s campaigns, cradled by Keats,

the pillowed pages dreaming cares away.

Outside, there’s conflict, endless civil strife

the weather’s shit, the country is a mess;

I know I should go out and combat life,

but I’m hungover, and I must confess:

I think it’s safer lying here in bed,

where all the battles fought are in my head.

AB

#16 - Conversations with a gun

“Fuck it!” she thought, and shot herself. Instead

of going off, and to her great surprise,

the gun fixed her with beady little eyes,

and in a deep and measured tone it said:

“You really think that you’d be better dead?

For be advised that nothing truly dies–

the problems of this life, the loves and lies,

cannot be fixed with little drops of lead.”

Her gaze grew grey, her hands began to shake,

the room span round, she felt her knees go weak.

She fled to bed to calm her wild heartbeats–

for some days suicide’s too much to take.

And when your favourite firearm starts to speak,

it’s best if you retreat between the sheets.

RJT

#15 - Hope & Revolution

a satirical cartoon

She knew that she was free, and felt afraid,

her army job cut by those Tory bastards.

She took revenge. Through Downing Street she blasted

with machine gun, bazookad Osborne, sprayed

bullets at Gove, fed Pickles a grenade.

“I'm sorry!” cried Clegg as his brains were plastered

over the smarmy face of Dave. It lasted

until she thought the country surely saved.

But when the dark and acrid smoke had cleared,

when blood had ceased to splatter on the wall

and through the clouds bright sunlight reappeared

she saw the awful truth, she'd been a fool,

for in Dave's place now sat a grinning Ed.

Fuck it, she thought, and shot herself instead.

AW

#14 - Anti-Social Networking

By posting useless platitudes on Twitter,
She left behind her life beyond the glass.
Forgot the taste of wine, the scent of grass,
And every joy was swapped for something bitter.
In her eyes there is no trace of glitter –
Each memory now lies within the past.
Her avatar and password are her mask.
Her sense of self – like light – see how it flickers!
But she's the first to know about the trends;
Pop culture is the beast that swallowed her.
She just can't be alone with all these friends!
A prophet with a million followers.
Though all the traps were set and plans were laid,
She knew that she was free, and felt afraid.

#13 - @Pontifex

Based on an original idea by Andrew O'Neill, riffed on with thanks.

Written not twelve hours before old Ratzinger resigned.

To speak the naked truth is hard as hell –

Uniquely when you know that hell’s not there.

Awake at night, I lie in silk and stare

At walls of chiselled gold that line my cell.

Hello? Hello? I’m here at last! I yell,

It’s me, your earthly deputy! Your heir!

Nothing – just echoes of my swindled prayer:

The worst bit is ­– there’s no one I can tell.

This triple crown of falsehood, fraud, and guilt,

Has locked me in a lie I cannot leave;

On faith of sand is this, the house I built:

So spare a thought for one who can’t believe –

I’m compensating for a life turned bitter,

By posting useless platitudes on Twitter.

 AB

#12 - I want you. I need you.

Myself, I fear that dreamless solitude

will cut the ties that bind me to the past:

the wild, chimeric demons I pursued,

perpetuating rôles in which I cast

myself. I fear that dreamless, dead impasse:

it forces me to contemplate a fate

reflected like a mirage in a glass.

It forces me to calculate the weight

you took from me – the burden of self-hate

you folded into two, and hid away.

You dreamed the dreams that faith and hope create,

you dreamed those three short words I cannot say.

And though your dreams still wrap me in their spell,

to speak the naked truth is hard as hell.

RJT

#11 - Sleep & Monet

a poem emerges from a fever induced dream

I fear that dreamless sleep eludes me yet

I dreamed I kissed the water lilies dear

what colours water knows their price is dear

for dreams like these the fears come yet

still know I think of you at midnight yet

I kissed Monet I really did oh dear

do please believe the price of sleep my dear

the lilies light the secret heart that yet

eludes the fearful lover and her dream

unless she's kissed the water eyes of sleep

the pillow's stale oh dear a sleepless dream

less dream than stale old wisps of sleep

in which I kissed Monet my heart eludes

myself I fear that dreamless solitude

AW

#10 - Dreaming of Budapest

We see whose love is blind and sleep. Who knows 

What wisdom slips between these quilted sheets? 

Which glories fair, which failures or deceits 

Will tremble as the lilting zephyr blows? 

We are like ghosts; a faint disquiet grows 

And formless beasts will walk these city streets. 

We conjure from our minds such tricks and treats, 

Our fears and furies granted in repose. 

A glimpse of futures past: I can’t begin 

To understand this mind of mine, so wild! 

And still each night I let the devils in, 

Till daylight finds me, weeping like a child. 

I want so much to live without regret; 

I fear that dreamless sleep eludes me yet.

#9 - a short pause, longer than a comma

the love that’s lost is love – that makes us strong
the love that’s lost is lost – that makes us weep
the loss that’s lov’d seems wrong – unless it’s sleep
who loves that loss seems deep – at least in song
who sings of love seems lost – but never wrong
who sings of loss is lov’d – but not so deep
who loses song is lost – tho’ singing’s cheap
who loses sleep is toss’d – who knows how long?
who knows he’s lost is bless’d – for he will find
who finds he’s bless’d is lov’d – for he is true
who’s true to love is kind – for it will show
who’s bless'd with love will know – yet he be blind
we see who’s love is blind – yet know not who
we see.
            whose love is blind?
                                           –  and sleep… who knows?

AB

#8 - L'Amour Fou

The season’s crops all rot. In lovers’ sweat

the memories of those moments linger on;

for though she’s glad that he is finally gone,

that heady perfume won’t let her forget

electric nights, entangled in his net,

with endless fucking, cries of “Tu es mon

soleil, et tu es vraiment mon amant!”

But passion suffocates in unpaid debt.

And passion leaves a sour taste in her mouth–

a bitter banquet, served with doubt and lies–

the leavings of a life that headed south

to bake beneath those endless desert skies.

She chants her mantra like a child’s song:

“The love that’s lost is love that makes us strong.”

RJT

#7 - God & Summer

Submerged before the surface breaks his fall;

a damselfly caught in the sudden rain.

The God of Storms has nothing but disdain

for insects, cricket matches, picnic sprawls,

and breaks them up. The raucous thunder brawls,

lightning and ruptured clouds. The batsman blames

his awful luck, the picnic couple drain

their wine and leave their sodden sandwich haul.

The God of Storms, well pleased, of course he is,

behind his beard a smile, the swaying sky

his hammock. Now the English summer's his

to keep. He dotes upon her, makes her sigh

and groan on boggy meadows, panting, wet,

the season's crops all rot in lovers' sweat.

AW

#6 - The Prophesy

Sometimes it's wise to hide those thoughts away 

But foolish is the man who holds regret.

His mind will wither, trapped by mortal debt, 

Imprisoned by the role he's doomed to play. 

From self-made cell, his heart will seldom stray, 

A life half-lived, his brow is drenched in sweat 

As he perceives some distant, unknown threat.

A threat that creeps still closer with each day. 

And though he bears the weight of every crime, 

He'll barter with the boatman for his soul.

But sharpened knives have cut this thread of time 

And, sinking to the depths, he's swallowed whole. 

Alone, he screams, but no one heeds his call; 

Submerged before the surface breaks his fall.

LM

#5 - Judith Kisses

She walks in beauty still, she walks in grace –

from fable onto canvas. Long I stare:

transfix’d by loaded eye and tumbling hair;

the reckless bloom that paints her stainless face.

I think I want her – she could take her place

beside me as my feet stroll through life’s care.

I think of troubles soothed by skin so fair;

I think of rippling souls, still fringed with lace.

But look beyond, like Huxley, past those folds:

the battle rages – all is background strife –

as, eyes downcast, in either hand she holds

a branch of peace, and yet a fatal knife.

As Holofernes, drunk and dead, would say:

sometimes it’s wise to hide those thoughts away.

AB

#4 - Final Copy

Below the painted boats, and through the dark,

a shadow stumbles, praying for the sun–

some mumbled, pleading call for dawn to come–

but God’s a jester now, and will not hark.

Then whistles sound, and dogs begin to bark:

across the sand, a last despairing run,

a single shout, a single silent gun,

a single lethal bullet finds its mark…

His body sinking slowly to the beach,

with shaking fingers punching at the ‘phone,

that lifetime scoop is just within his reach;

he files his final copy with a groan:

“The Princess lives! Yes, I have seen her face!

She walks in beauty still, she walks in grace…”

RJT

#3 - Photographs & Sharks

A beauty now is all she'll ever be,

forever young until these photos fade

into the remnants of a quaint decade

when girls wore dresses green as mushy peas,

such dreary rooms, a whiff of potpourri,

the summer breaks to Galway Bay, mislaid

moments of love. Fashion has changed, unmade,

her daring style lost to the mythic sea.

A story now is all that will survive,

her frightful jump into the ocean's surge;

perhaps she washed ashore, reborn, alive

in distant lands, perhaps she's still submerged,

her silenced voice now flitting like a shark

below the painted boats and through the dark.

AW

#2 - Typecast

‘Is this the only crown I’ll ever wear?’

This circlet forged by fingers so unclean,

A vapid prize for every Beauty Queen:

This title, filled with promise and despair.

Though she was blessed with beauty (and great hair) 

There comes, with this, a curse that’s seldom seen.

Permitted just to pout and primp and preen;

Her words and thoughts were nothing but hot air.

As every rose in bloom will surely fade,

She too will fade, like sun worn tapestries.

For time’s an inescapable parade,

The only way to fool it is to flee.

With fingers crossed, she jumped into the sea:

A beauty, now, is all she’ll ever be. 

LM

#1 - Uneasy Heads

If I had time, and all the proper tools,

I’d shape myself a crown of stolen gold,

And light all England, with my living doled

For free – and gladly so – by servile fools,

Bedazzled by my band of borrowed jewels.

I’d hoard the nation’s wealth and love, as bold

As brass, and smile a smile that might seem cold,

Until I’m thanking those who made these rules.

Well, luckily for you, I lack the will

And metal scorn to be a king of men;

What little wealth I have is earned by skill –

My supper paid for by the verse I pen.

Composed of insubstantial words and air

Is this, the only crown I’ll ever wear.

AB

28 Sonnets Later II - The Crown

28 Sonnets Later is back! And, like The Godfather Part 2, we’ve added a layer of complexity!

Last February, the four of us took it in turns to write and post a sonnet a day on this little blog. We were so happy with the results that we’ve decided to try it again. This year, however, we’re going to attempt something that (to our knowledge) has not been tried before: we’re going to group-write a crown of sonnets.
What’s a crown of sonnets? It’s simple: the last line of the first sonnet becomes the first line of the second sonnet. The second sonnet’s last line becomes the first line of sonnet three, and so on – until sonnet 28. This last sonnet will take its first line from the end of sonnet 27, and its last line will be the first of sonnet 1. If you’re still confused, don’t worry – you only have to read them. And spread them around on Facebook and Twitter.

Thanks to all those who followed us last year and bought the book – we hope you enjoy the next 28 days and poems as much as we do!