'Authority'

The final crown is now complete! And the first lines of each of the sonnets numbered fifteen to twenty-eight come together to form our second sonnet wreath. This one is aptly named 'Authority'.

Power: it’s all about the clout of wealth.
I want to make your choice and I can pay
for healing all my wounds, but not myself -
forgetting what the hell I tried to say
concerning subjugation by the state,
the apparatus of coercive law.
If we were richer, we could emigrate
and listen to rare starlings on the shore -
a chattering of hubris and conceit.
Below the doleful hum of coconuts
I reassess my errors and defeats.
My poetry is clearly going nuts!
What is a metre? Whereof do we speak?
Like mice on picket lines, I have a squeak.

# 28 - The elasticity of logic

Like mice on picket lines, I have a squeak:
A grievance built on blood and circumstance.
And though I'm blessed with quite the coward's streak
I'll raise my voice and praise each small advance.

For bridges are not built now by the weak
(I hear they're funded by Arts Council Grants)
And though you fear the mischief we may wreak
I think you should give poetry a chance.

There's nothing we can do to change your mind
Unless we write a sonnet or sestina.
Verbosity's the only way to find
The truth in each political arena.

When we say, “Politician, heal thyself!”
Power: it’s all about the clout of wealth.

LM

# 27 - like mice on picket lines I have a squeak

What is a metre? Whereof do we speak?

Well, metre comes from France’s revolution

to make all poems rational and neat.

Any vers libre led to execution.

An army marches on iambic feet,

at least according to Napoleon,

and sprightly rhymes revive like bread and meat.

Rebels downed their pints at The Holy Inn.

But, liberally, this form allows dissent

and though the army marches on and on

there is a place here for my discontent

before the closure of the denouement

when a trim couplet makes my thought complete:

like mice on picket lines I have a squeak.

AW

# 26 - the geometry of the vietcong

my poetry is clearly going nuts

my mathematics is out of control

my politics admits no ifs or buts

my melodies remodel rock 'n' roll

my choruses dissemble and cajole

my balladry defoliates and bleeds

my calculus kneels on a grassy knoll

my banditry plants vines amongst the weeds

my domination dances in the reeds

my assonance approximates the rhyme

my doggerel will sing of fictive deeds

my algebra will break the back of time

the Devil cannot silence Grothendieck

what is a metre? whereof do we speak?

RJT

# 25 - Fourteen Caveats

I reassess my errors and defeats

I redefine parameters each day

I gerrymander politics my way

I reinvent the darkly cobbled streets

I metamorphose ’til I have no feet

I recross every line of braided spray

I counter-ruck the palace’s array

I automagically endure retreats

My prudence lies behind me, pale and numbed

My common sense is on the shelf, well-thumbed

My acumen subsists in tea-stained mugs

My marbles clack and spit across the rug

My laws are filled with hinky “ifs” and “buts”

My poetry is clearly going nuts

AB

# 24 - dust and ambergris

Below the doleful hum of coconuts,

the salamanders sing their ancient song.

While some stars burst and others simply shut,

I wonder if I've been here for too long.

All covered, now, in dust and ambergris,

I listen for the screeching butterflies

but only hear the shouting of the bees

and see the hedgehogs making their goodbyes.

The wailing worms are mourning spade-slain friends,

the spiders bark and growl at passing cars,

and so, tonight, my sanity depends

on trying not to burst, like all those stars.

And, like a song forever on repeat,

I reassess my errors and defeats. 

LM

# 23 - in the nook of sounds of wooing

a chattering of hubris and conceit

a factory of simile and lust

a flattering of vanity and poesy

to win a kiss from my fair love

a platypus of hubris and arousal

a beautiful of crocuses and rust

a dumbledore of whispering and sighs

to win a kiss from my fair love

without her love i’m banished from myself

and stuck upon an island hot and haughty

between the mournful midges in the dusk

an exile in the nook of sounds of wooing

and stuck upon a love that’s not my own

below the doleful hum of coconuts 

AW

# 22 - Five Hundred Years

And listen to rare starlings on the shore.

And hymn the fabled vanities of yore.

And swim against the truth for evermore.

And kiss those visions of the heretofore.

(For history's just a construct of the mind:

a simulation of what's left behind,

assimilating everything ‒ a kind

of mystery for posterity to find)

Fine words will garnish nothing but the tongue.

Fire spares the old, but mutilates the young.

File past the tombs with musket, fife and drum.

Five hundred years from here to Kingdom Come.

Come flatter me, come make my life complete ‒

a chattering of hubris and conceit.

RJT

# 21 - the mynah birds are talking

If we were richer, we could emigrate –
But where? The eagle’s spacious nest
is riven on itself; the bear’s estate
is busy scaring rainbows back out west.
The cattle? Their green pastures now are filled,
yet bare; the lambs see little sign of spring.
And all around the lake, each lair and field
is burning with the death-stare of a king.
Let’s not go there. Let’s take the doctor’s keys,
and sail away to somewhere Palanese;
We’ll tend with care at both ends of the trees –
comparing tips from beetles and from bees.
We’ll live the life we never dared before,
and listen to rare starlings on the shore.

AB

# 20 - Political Bias

The apparatus of coercive law
Resides in property and copyright,
And manufacture builds the need for more:
“You'll never take my stuff without a fight!”

The rich control the jaws and when they bite,
So, cross your fingers for prosperity.
Fiscal freedom is a certain right - 
But not a certain right for you or me.

Then, using phrases from antiquity,
The politicians tell us who to blame.
They wring their hands with such sincerity

But people's lives, to them, are just a game.

They governed by division, greed and hate;
If we were richer, we could emigrate.

LM

# 19 - culture ruse is smooth

concerning subjugation by the state

of hypersexual marriage in angola

and how the tyranny of coca cola

forces the brave to circumnavigate

a flooding that will decontaminate

the pretty flocks shorn by the ayatollah

now stained with badger honey and granola

if only bob crow will participate

your culture ruse is smooth and decadent

the undersigned demand a referendum

on bailing-out the plucky elephant

our impish quirks are in the addendum

please do not feed the labour carnivore

the apparatus of coercive law

AW

# 18 - An Erotic Dialectic

Forgetting what the hell I tried to say
to you last night, whilst passion raged, is not
the action of a yellow-bellied sot –
it’s just a mechanism to allay
that psychic breakdown of a cold new day.
For those three words encapsulate a lot
of what unites us, but also of what
divides our minds, leaves hearts in disarray.
So let’s just talk of far more simple things:
begin with shoes and ships and sealing wax,
move on to climate science, income tax,
misuse of the prerogative of kings.
Then finish with a fiercely-fought debate
concerning subjugation by the state.

RJT

# 17 - In my head, it’s Lothlὸrien

For healing all my wounds (but not myself),

it’s heartening that there’s a place to go

where they will fix me when I’m feeling low –
where my gesundheit won’t depend on wealth.

Though Tories try to privatise by stealth,

And siphon to their mates the nation’s dough,

for now, I’m reassured and glad to know

the British Wonder called the Nation’l ‘Elf.

(While writing the above, I got distracted:

what if we had an Elven Head of State?

What magic laws would therefore be enacted?

And would we sing of Celeborn the Great?)

Apologies – I’ve wandered off the way,

forgetting what the hell I tried to say…

AB

# 16 - Second Hand Smoke

I want to make your choice and I can pay
for any damage to your skin or lungs.
There is responsibility that comes
from being both the predator and prey.
Dissected, disembowelled, and on display,
I try to shout but find my throat is numb.
You see, nostalgia's wasted on the young
and when the urges take me, I obey.
Abstinence is fine – if that's your thing –
but artificial virtue is eclipsed
by inclination. As she softly sings
I'll pass corruption on, through moistened lips.
Quitting lust is best (if done by stealth)
for healing all my wounds, but not myself.

LM

# 15 - pheasants moseyed

Power: it’s all about the clout of wealth
the means of production
the queens of seduction
the beans of destruction

I once drove though the countryside with power
and pheasants moseyed through the grain
I once licked power when it wasn’t looking
and pheasants moseyed through the rain

it fell in golden showers
trickle down
dribble pound
pickle sound

these words don’t have to mean a thing
I want to make your choice and I can pay

AW

'Hero'

Ladies and gentlemen, the first crown is now complete, turning back on itself.
Adorning this crown is a sonnet wreath, composed of the first lines of the fourteen sonnets comprising the crown:

I want a hero ‒ but then don't we all?
I see the hero deep in all of us:
a small, swift flame to shield against the fall
alone, into the cold impervious.
Can I be trusted? Will I heed the call?
An Englishman tries not to make a fuss ‒
he brings sweet moderation to the ball.
Behind their backs I tut at the unjust.
I will not take this bullshit any more ‒
the best thing you can do is be a man,
contender in no ordinary war,
ignoring anyone who has a plan.
We all must die, but then, who's keeping score?
I'll try to live a little while I can.

# 14 - Much Ado About Something

I'll try to live a little while I can
still sing the songs ‒ those lays of silver tongue;
still walk the walk ‒ that two-step of the young
pretender (one who knows his stuff ‒ no 'wham
bam thank you ma'am' in these quotidian
affaires privées). I know that Spring has sprung
and Summer's summed and Fall's fall has begun.
A fiery and uncommon courtesan ‒
a Beatrice burning for her Benedict ‒
is what I want, is what I need, is what
will hide my heart from Winter’s icy tricks.
Yet othertimes, I know that there is naught
but simple Claudio within my soul ‒
I want a Hero ‒ but then don't we all?

RJT

# 13 - Sometimes I wonder

We all must die – but then, who’s keeping score?

The martyrs, maybe, as they play their game:

One-nil, two-nil – it all adds up the same.

The only thing that we can say for sure

is god fights on both sides in every war:

each tallied death adds glory to his name

(I’m fairly sure that’s what the prophets claim).

Whatever. Damn their worthless ancient lore –

A modern man can prove himself more brave,

dismissing fictive fears beyond the grave;

find simpler glory in the random chance

that led him here to join in Nature’s dance.

Though brief and fleeting be my earthly span,

I’ll try to live a little while I can.

AB

# 12 - Chaos Theory

Ignoring anyone who has a plan,
Forgo all friends’ opinions and advice.
Give in to each new whim and every vice.
Take solace in confusion where you can.

Ignoring anyone who has a plan,
Stake your claim by rolling all the dice.
Live by impulse, never thinking twice
And revel in upheaval where you can.

Before we’re cast into the nameless cold,
It’s best to break the rules and have some fun.
I think we’re all just scared of growing old
And staring into sweet oblivion.

We’ll battle with regrets and lose the war.
We all must die, but then, who’s keeping score?

LM

# 11 - I snogged a man in Reno

Contender in no ordinary war

I snogged a man in Reno just to see

you cry, the night as hot as rutting boar

I spurred the fucking on like Henry Vee

For he today that sheds his seed with me
shall be my lover through the winter’s sleet

when frost has settled on the linden tree

and you have lost your love among conceits

How many times hast thou got laid this week?

I’ve done it fifteen times. I swallow night

and day a dish best served at body heat

I like it best when it is short and trite

when strangers improvise on a divan

ignoring anyone who has a plan

AW

# 10 - on second thoughts, maybe you should just take up golf

the best thing you can do is be: a man

possessed / a wing-walker, free jockey on

the fly / some souped-up laser-guided bomb

of peace / that duke of cool / the one who van-

dalises to impress, far better than

those sidekicks of the gods now dead and gone /

self-referential prophet of the non-

aligned / a prince among the fawning fan-

tasists / titanic, nonpareil burlesque

artiste, discerning in your tastes with for-

ty servants liveried / the statuesque

yet stealthy undercover pirate / or

a ninja master of the kafkaesque,

contender in no ordinary war

RJT

# 9 - Like Herod: my desk is vibrating

I will not take this bullshit any more –

you know you’re wrong: at least evolve a spine,

and own up. Take a minute to refine

those tired arguments that make us snore,

and get a little curious. Explore

a different viewpoint; take a wider line –

don’t let your stone beliefs define

you as a human. Think! Open the door

and dive on through! There’s bravery in this:

to tear up all the world you once believed;

to burn the pages of your master plan,

and greet the world in free unthethered bliss.

Try it. I guarantee you’ll be relieved:

the best thing you can do is be a man.

AB

# 8 - Cowardice

Behind their backs, I tut at the unjust,
Though I would never say a word aloud.
When you’re a coward, silence is a must.
It pays to learn to melt into the crowd.
My principles are only sand and dust
And I will only say what I’m allowed.
I may regard them all with some distrust
But still, in deference, my head is bowed.
Abuse is not the price we pay for love;
I can't just turn my head and let it be.
That iron fist inside that velvet glove.
I must act now, before they come for me.
Such platitudes! We've heard them all before.
I will not take this bullshit any more.

LM

# 7 - One Sugar If You Please

He brings sweet moderation to the ball
(though not too sweet) one sugar if you please.
There’s nothing moderate about his balls.
This is a country for old men and sleaze.

Middle class, middle England, the squeezed middle
I like that Middle Earth but make it shorter?
(You have guessed right) this line must end with fiddle.
Nero, eh?

Auden told us that poems make nothing happen.
When written on the walls of Jericho
a sonnet failed to move a mote of dust.

Learn poems by heart don’t let them change your heart.
I had this feeling then I made it rhyme.
Behind their backs I tut at the unjust.

AW

# 6 - On yer bike

An Englishman tries not to make a fuss,
though wars and deprivation take their toll
on the certainties that keep his people whole,
that make this island nation glorious.
An Englishman is never furious:
he rambles through the country of his soul ‒
a realm that's damned by drugs and rock 'n' roll,
where tube strikes mean he has to take the bus,
where single mothers struggle to survive,
and sneering, twisted traitors poison love.
Yet hope remains, and reason may still thrive ‒
a citizen who's none of the above,
but English, British, European all ‒
he brings sweet moderation to the ball.

RJT

# 5 - "By God, sir! I've lost my leg!"

Can I be trusted? Will I heed the call?

What call can echo through this captive land,

that poets like me will rise to take a stand?

When justice and compassion stumble, fall,

what option have our pleading pens to gall

or check the sneers of those in cold command,

except perhaps to publish and be damned,

and slam our heads against a deafened wall?

But trust in this: it’s not the apathy

stunning our countrymen that gives us pause;

nor cowardice, nor fear of tyranny,

No! stiff top lips and doctrine are the cause –

our biggest problem can be rendered thus:

an Englishman tries not to make a fuss.

AB

# 4 - Jekyll/Hyde

Alone into the cold impervious,
These shadows play behind my flitting eyes.
A demon dressed as man. A cruel disguise.
Automaton, spurred on by fear and lust.
Between two states of being is the cusp
And when one man is born, another dies.
With knuckles bloodied, I will improvise,
Where proud frustration mingles with disgust.
There may be no return from this dark state –
The earth behind me salted, barley burned.
Each stolen moment lived with brimming hate.
Respect taken by force but never earned.
I fear I may have further yet to fall.
Can I be trusted? Will I heed the call?

LM

# 3 - it’s no good being candid

a small swift flame to shield against the fall

when starlings dart between an orange sky

a peach of moon and the horizon’s jaw

it’s nearly dark my baby ba-bye

below the light-grazed canopy of space

above the downy grass of our bonsai

planet sings the toll of parting ways

you’re nearly gone my baby ba-bye

snuff out the candle

pack away the hoot cry of the owl

forget the facts they taught you back in school

it’s no good being candid

to strangers somewhere you are tossed

alone into the cold impervious

AW

# 2 - Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis.

I see the hero deep in all of us,
I see the valiant warrior confined,
I see the wise and penetrating mind,
I see compassion, sympathy and trust.
I also see the hope that turns to dust,
the jealousy and fear that make us blind,
the bitter, broken face of humankind,
the angry, frightened, sad and envious.
It's tempting then to ask: 'Which will prevail?
The night or light? The chaos or the calm?'
But that struggle is what helps to mould us all ‒
a lesson learned for every time we fail,
and for every time the darkness threatens harm,
a small, swift flame to shield against the fall.

RJT

# 1 - Apotheosis

I want a hero – but then, don’t we all?

A life to follow, deeds to idolise:

the tales re-told to kids with starry eyes

and aspiration, hope – a dream; a call

to all that, since we stood, made us stand tall,

and peek over horizons; made us rise

above the rocks and chase tomorrow’s skies –

to grasp the godlike once before we fall.

Now, paragons like these are hard to find:

where’s honour now? And whither chivalry?

When did it get so wrong to just be kind,

and live a life of love and charity?

But, as a hippie (which is obvious),

I see the hero deep in all of us.

AB

28 Sonnets Later III - Heroic Crowns

Hello all, and welcome back!

To catch up any newbies, here's what 28 Sonnets Later is all about:

In February 2012, four poets (myself, Leanne Moden, Russell J Turner, and Adam Warne) took it in turns to write a sonnet a day and post them up on this blog. We loved it. We also forgot that 2012 was a leap year, so we ended up writing 29.

To up the challenge, in February 2013, we wrote a Crown of Sonnets over the month. A crown of sonnets is where the last line of the first sonnet becomes the first of the second and so on, until the last line of the last sonnet is the same as the first of the first, and the whole thing goes full circle. This was even more fun, and really showed how we'd improved as poets over the intervening eleven months.

So what's the plan for this February? We're going to write two Heroic Crowns of Sonnets. This works like the crown above, but with the added rule that the final lines of each sonnet can be assembled into a fifteenth sonnet (or Wreath Sonnet, as we're calling it). Sound confusing? Well it is.

The great news is that you, the reader, don't have to worry about the rules too much – all you have to do is follow the blog here on blogspot, or on Twitter @28SonnetsLater, and feast on a sonnet a day to chase the blues away!

A