#28 - Sunday Morning

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

With some words from the song of the same name by the Velvet Underground & Nico

...the sounds of Sunday kicking into gear ‒
celesta grooves like bird-song through your brain,
composing all the pieces that remain,
unmaking themes of restlessness and fear.
But doubt and paranoia reappear
despite the lull of Nico’s last refrain,
that small insistent itch occurs again ‒
Watch out! The world needs just another beer!

The morning slides into a muddy mist
with rivulets, not torrents, at its core.
The afternoon a myth of lips unkissed
that broken-hearted wanderers explore.
But evening shyly seeks another tryst
as Monday rolls the wheel around once more...

RJT

#27 - Cupid Corrupted

Finally, and only an hour beyond the threshold, Fay Roberts finishes zir musing on the Seven Deadly Sins with the crowning horror: #Greed.

Not everyone can grab a second chance.
The pusillanimous will whine and fret,
but you can call the measure of this dance,
since he who pays the piper owns their sweat

and tears, you can’t quite get enough of those.
That saltiness is something that you crave,
its glitter littering the path you chose.
See, misery extends beyond the grave.

There’s only so much you can rut or stuff
into your face, but this? its maw expands
with every bite, and never gets enough.
And that’s what you don’t care to understand.

You hold this key obscenity so dear…
The gateway to the seven stands right here.

– FR

Image of rotting apples from Tasting Table

#26 - VIOLET

Thinking about light, rainbows, visual perception, and the ultra-violet patches of colour on flowers that human eyes cannot see. 

The Unseen

Despite the darkness, we must learn to sing – 

a purpling of air, to sooth the dread

that effervesces in our throats, and brings

this swimming faint sensation to our heads. 

The atmosphere, alive with countless shades;

the microscopic teeming through our blood; 

the ultra-violet that peaks and fades,

a staining on the lip of every bud. 

We grasp to seek the colours that it exist, 

invisible in shards of shafting sun.

A spectrum of perfection, shadows twist

their neon splendour. Beauty on the run.

But, luminous, the courage flashing bright: 

the prism splits a humble beam of light.

LM

Image via Wikipedia

#25 - Seven Ages: Second Childhood

Philosopher Laughing at Magick (detail)
David Teniers, c1775

 

I know that I know nothing – therefore wise

it is that I should hold my foolish tongue?

Well, bugger that: embarrassing the young

shall be this poet’s joy before he dies.

With knackered knees and cataracted eyes,

besotted liver, reefer-blackened lung,

I plan to leave no single song unsung –

no random thought that I won’t verbalise.

So, as I bimble through my final years,

I guess I’ll try to savour every breath:

intending laughter, steering clear of tears;

and as to the Unmapped that’s after death –

it’s surely half the fun that we don’t know:

expectant, trepidatious, on we go…

 

AWB

#24 - Drive-in Saturday

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

With some words from the song of the same name by David Bowie

...she orchestrates a drive-in Saturday
where headlights scatter moments in the dark
of some forgotten retro picture park ‒
a crash course for the ravers gone astray.
While music underscores, romantics sway
with fingers fumbling for a vivid spark
illuminating one clear question mark ‒
is this the truth or just a pixel play?

So flex our wings, and measure out our lives
in congress on the solid side of here ‒
the streets where bodies meet and passion thrives
above the stones, beneath the starry sphere.
As night dissolves, reality survives
the sounds of Sunday kicking into gear...

RJT

#23 - Golden Age

Headache finally over, it’s time for Fay Roberts to tackle #Pride while messing with form…

How dare they swan around like no-one cares?
It’s easy, really: simply be the best.
Forsake all other notions, let the rest
diminish to a distant din downstairs.

You see, they long to be as good as this –
their every breath declares them second class,
that panting envy fogs the looking glass –
however hard they try, they’ll always miss.

But… what if they’ve a point? No, heavens – no!
No matter how they march, wave stuff, and shout,
just turn the music up to drown them out;
it’s all about not what, but how you show

superiority in every glance.
Not everyone can grab a second chance.

Picture from Abraham’s Store

#22 - INDIGO

Indigo Tunnel is an abandoned railway tunnel in Allegany County, Maryland, in the USA. It probably isn’t haunted. But what if it was?  

CONTENT NOTE: MENTION OF VOMIT. 

The Ghosts of Indigo Tunnel 

Reminding us they’ve been here all along,

the spectres echo cruelly through the gloom,

their tendrils graze our wrists, the air feels wrong,

the blackened walls march closer. We’re entombed

by flickering projections on the bricks.

The acrid scent of smoke, the scorch of skin,

the cloying panic finds your throat and sticks;

the frothing gloss of vomit coats your chin. 

Outside, the sunlight of a summer’s day

is dappled through the leaves as fine as lace. 

The elders, searching, know which words to say,

until they see the look upon your face. 

A haunting is a solitary thing;

despite the darkness, we must learn to sing.

LM

Image via Wikipedia

#21 - Seven Ages: Old Age

John Bull taking a luncheon, James Gillray 1798

 

A ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather –

lock all your doors, and wear a fluffy snood;

mistrust the ‘foreigners’ (but eat their food),

bemoan the lack of feeling in your nethers.

Recite the Telegraph and think you’re clever:

“Minorities lack moral rectitude!”

Divide, deprive, harass, oppress, exclude –

defend the white man’s privilege forever.

 

I hope to god I don’t become my Dad.

I have no taste for droning, whining, cold –

inert as my compassion ossifies.

I’ll try to stay this shop-soiled Galahad:

still seeking truth and beauty when I’m old –

and knowing I know nothing, therefore wise.

 

AWB

#20 - Friday on My Mind

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

After Frigg (and Ariadne)
With some words from the song of the same name by The Easybeats

...you know that Friday’s always on my mind
you know tonight is when I spend my bread
you know tonight is how I lose my head
you know that sanity gets left behind

we tumble through the caverns of the blind
we travel via Ariadne’s thread
we cast our candles for the recent dead
we meet where past and future intertwine

she carves her secrets in an ash-wood box
she dances prophecies of air and earth
she paints a brightness fading into grey
she sings against betrayal by the fox
she weaves a tapestry of coming birth
she orchestrates a drive-in Saturday...

RJT

#19 - DIES IRAE

Fay Roberts fought off another bloody #migraine to bring this bit of #Wrath your way.

They all deserve a big piece of your mind.
They say restraint is all the rage again,
but leaving fools in ignorance? Unkind.
It’s time to crack your knuckles, lift the pen.

Start firm – apology is out – you must
be strong, resist the urge to soften blows.
This lot must understand your cause is just,
it’s just that they’re so wrong, and heaven knows

you’ve left it long enough to make it clear.
You feel the righteousness race through your blood,
it’s screaming now: rip down all they hold dear.
The time is coming. None survive the flood.

We’re more than fodder, more than fucking spares.
How dare they swan around like no-one cares?

– FR

Image from Stock Food

#18 - BLUE

 An ode to the sky, because I couldn't think of anything else to write about for the colour blue. And I painted myself into a bit of a corner with the last line from my previous poem...

Radio Telescope

we cannot teach the sky herself to sing, 

but if we mouth the words, she’ll hum the tune.

The notes will fill the air with silver wings;

a cobalt-coloured symphony. The moon 

will croon in sympathy, her face aglow 

with light that she has borrowed from the sun.

The sun will bring the bass, the song will grow

until it fills the stratosphere and none 

can nullify the rhythm of the song. 

The periwinkle twinkle of the stars, 

bring azure notes that echo loud and strong. 

And, from the earth, the music sounds bizarre 

an antidote to all we think we are, 

reminding us they’ve been here all along. 

LM

Image via Unsplash.com

#17 - Seven Ages: Judge

 

Presumably not distracted by kids singing Let It Go

My Muse! My Comrade! Wreathed in loving glory,

words fail to scale the height of my esteem!

A bildungsroman now is this, my story:

from callow youth to half a winning team.

 

It’s thanks to you – in every case before me –

my judgement’s more considered, less extreme;

romantic poets might murmur “I adore thee!” –

but sometimes rhymes run deeper than they seem.

 

This ain’t no corny Keatsian teenage yearning,

to seem profound (and get you into bed) –

more recognition that this guy’s still learning

to be the man he promised when we wed:

 

a partner for your honour, sure together;

a ward ‘gainst civil strife and chilly weather..

AWB

#16 - I Lost Thursday

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

With some words from the song of the same name by They Might Be Giants

...she knows the hope and loss that Thursday brings
I packed it all up in a sleeping bag
Lettered with the lines and hues of flags
Obstinately flying in the wings
Supernatural, spaced out cats and kings
Tripping tales of homelessness and skag
They talk in tongues to tell the world their rags
Hope lies bleeding, tangled up in strings
Underneath this cinematic sheen
Repentant/not repentant afterthoughts
She measures all the fantasy she finds
Deep in panopticons I often dream
Absolutely everything and naught
You know that Friday’s always on my mind...

RJT

#15 - Invidious

Fay Roberts apologises for entirely losing a day, and proffers this hastily written, iambic stream-of-consciousness on the subject of Envy, which turns out to be more complex than ze’d anticipated.

How dare they shout to claim your starry skies?
You think that they’d have quite enough from birth
to satisfy their hunger, stop their cries –
it’s like they don’t appreciate the worth

of everything that’s handed to them – free
and gratis, not like you, who’s had to work
to claim what meagre scraps you’ve gathered – see?
It’s more than equal treatment while they shirk

responsibilities – it’s thoughtlessness
that irks you, when all you can do is think
what luxuries you’d milk from bitterness
while, all the while, you’re clinging to the brink

of giving up on being good and kind –
they all deserve a big piece of your mind.

– FR

Image from pixabay

#14 - GREEN

 Another one that came out of following where the rhyme led me...

Overgrown 

A symbol of fertility and growth

is fine, if that’s the way you want to live.

This garden’s only fit to harbour ghosts;

a climbing vine to strangle infants with. 

A haunting is a solitary thing – 

an empty acre, mourning verdant shoots.

But even fallow fields still crave the spring,

and do their best to nurture wilder fruits.

The nettles, with their customary bite,

still tilt their pointed faces to the sun.

The meanest blossom leans towards the light,

the soil is never bare, when all is done. 

And every seed that sleeps still craves the spring:

we cannot teach the sky herself to sing. 

LM

Image via unsplash.com

#13 - Seven Ages: Soldier

Hunt at Peterloo 1819. Never forget.

 

The hope on which society depends:

that still the arc of History will tend

towards a cultured, genteel evolution.

“Too slow!” cry new recruits with resolution –

some take up arms to hasten their solution,

and some write poems that call for revolution.

(And to this day, both cohorts still contend

at which approach will pay more dividends.)

 

So yeah, I wrote some angry stuff back then:

like “Burn the System! Capital Aflame!”

 “Drown All the Priests in Slurry Made From Tories!”

But Westminster still stood, despite my pen!

And I discovered – focusing my aim –

my muse, a comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

AWB

#12 - A Wednesday Car

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

After the film ‘A Complete Unknown’, with apologies to all the participants
‘Sylvie’ equals ‘Suze’, for the purposes of reality
With some words from the song of the same name by Johnny Cash

...the new dawn’s magic, Wednesday’s sorcery
that haunts this earthly city’s cracks and peaks
with words to tie you down or set you free,
to liberate those lemons, dogs and freaks.

In Greystone, Woody shines but cannot speak
of all he’s been and all that he has done,
while Pete recounts the wonders that he seeks
and Johnny simply laughs and gets his gun.

Now Bobby rides electric wheels for fun
as Sylvie weeps for what she helped create,
yet Joan cannot regret what is to come ‒
a whole wide world to circumnavigate.

She whispers softly ‘just fuck off and sing’.
She knows the hope and loss that Thursday brings...

RJT

#11 - Lament

Ironically enough, Fay Roberts was asleep (with a migraine) so couldn’t write Sloth last night. Hence it being late. (Ze thinks it’s likewise only fitting that ze’s chosen the sonnet form with the fewest rhymes…)

You can’t let tyrants rob you of your sleep;
you need some peace and quiet for a while.
Just let them rant and spill out all their bile;
if that’s what virtue looks like, they can keep
it, sticking to the herd with all the sheep.
Exert yourself? You’d rather run a mile
than keep up with the pious rank and file.
It’s better to lie low than take the leap.

But whispers filter through your sweet, white noise:
“This good man’s doing nothing…” outright lies!
You’re just recuperating former poise
(if wallowing was sport, you’d take the prize)
Ambition stalled – those others took your toys;
how dare they shout to claim your starry skies?

Photo by Stockcake

#10 - YELLOW

The King in Yellow is a collection of short stories by Robert W. Chambers, published in 1895. The title takes its name from a fictional play, referenced in the first four short stories of the book. According to the author, anyone who reads the play will go mad with horror. The stories are said to have inspired the Cthulhu mythos, and are so chilling precisely because they leave so much to the imagination...

The King in Yellow

You leave this place with nothing but your name,

as swelling, spitting tendrils seal your fate.

Your thoughts, like starving serpents, undulate, 

a crown of vipers laying vicious claim 

to every former joy; your darkness framed

with tarnished golden halos. And their weight

may waste your mortal flesh as it stagnates.

The cat is killed, and chaos seeks to reign.

But serpents can be tamed with soothing sounds

and patience may recover what was lost. 

I will remain your servant, on my oath,

and loosen all the ties that have you bound. 

Around your neck, a pale ouroboros:

a symbol of fertility and growth. 

LM

Artwork by RW Chambers (1895)

#9 - Seven Ages: Lover

 

h/t to Caroline Pollard for the photo

A portrait of a man not fully grown –

discovered in a loft and brought to light:

a leather jacket, Yankee hat, and bright

eyes, nonchalant to facing the unknown.

He wants to love, yet still needs to be shown

that common solipsistic oversight –

the plague of every amorous neophyte –

to have a care for hearts that aren’t his own.

 

At that age, breaking hearts was just a game

more fun than football (I played better, too).

The fug of booze and time obscures the names,

remorseful verse rewrites the billets-doux.

Quiescent will exists to make amends,

the hope on which society depends.

 

AWB

#8 - Ruby Tuesday

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

After Tiw

With some words from the song of the same name by the Rolling Stones

...when Tuesday enters, roaring like a fire ‒
to banish lies, to tear illusion down
and wear the spoils of battle as a crown ‒
the one-armed, wolf-meat, warriors leap higher,
all balancing along a narrow wire
and wrestling wrongs wherever they are found.
The Gods are gathered at a circus-ground,
dispensing sin and error to the pyre.

But who could ever hang a name on them?
They bicker over meaning and intent
until the dying flames dissolve and then
a silence falls as argument is spent.
For there is one thing they all wish to see:
the new dawn’s magic, Wednesday’s sorcery...

RJT

#7 - An Ardent Palate

Turns out at least one of you clever folks already guessed Fay Roberts’s theme and the topic of the last poem (Lust of the Seven Deadly Sins), so here’s Gluttony:

You’ll gorge yourself on all you might desire,
pick this and that, fill platters to the brim.
The feast arrayed in front of you inspires
more active souls to hustle to the gym.

That’s not your game – it’s all about the choices
that cause ascetics such a dreadful fright –
but here your inner toddler rejoices!
(Now clean your plate – aught else is impolite.)

The world is full of misery and heartache,
and people who insist on leeching joy,
so come on – might as well inhale this cheesecake,
and leave them to their schemes and scowls and ploys.

And though tomorrow’s gripe might make you weep,
you can’t let tyrants rob you of your sleep.

– FR

Picture from Dreamstime

#5 - Seven Ages: Schoolboy

 

With smiles and hopeful airs, first day of school:

crisp uniform and unfamiliar tie;

new disciplines, a timetable, and rules

of social commerce; cliques to codify.

Will tests in Maths and Science be your fuel?

Athletics, French, or Music get you by?

Perhaps – like me – you’ll reach the peak of ‘cool’?

(and – decades later – know that that’s a lie.)

This skinny, gobby tryhard spent his terms

deflecting – with his gags – the fists of churls;

and, quoting Shakespeare, and the Diet of Worms,

theatrically failed to dazzle girls.

Pubescent verse, hubristic faith alone:

a portrait of a man not fully grown.

 

AWB

#4 - Blue Monday

This year I am using the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

With some words from the song of the same name by New Order

...as Monday rolls the wheel around once more,

with memories just sailing out of reach ‒

a ship, a harbour, some forgotten beach ‒

to ride the tides of what has gone before.

But history is not a one-way door

and memory has much that it can teach

in sympathy, in imagery and speech,

in how to navigate an unseen shore.

So kick your boots off, dance beneath the Moon,

and make your plans for all that is to come ‒

those future days that stack up one by one.

It may not happen now, but pretty soon

the Fates could weave a pattern, could conspire,

when Tuesday enters, roaring like a fire...

RJT

#3 - Tempest

Fay Roberts writes: I’ve decided, for the moment, not to say what my seven are. They’re quite famous, so it will probably become apparent as I go along (or I might change my mind later and say anyway…). So anyway, wise Verily Aspie guessed in the comments already – this is Lust, of the Seven Deadly Sins.

The gateway to the seven stands right here.
You long to touch, but cannot quite commit
to all the things that you’re supposed to fear
(while this one claims it’s fine to just submit).

It’s natural to hope, it does no harm
to gaze upon what might, in time, be yours,
and how are you supposed to counter charm
designed to gloss (or venerate) its flaws?

You look, and look, and cannot look away;
spend all spare moments summoning the scenes.
Occasional indulgence has now swayed
to frequencies and formulas obscene.

And though you’re more than warmed now by this fire
you’ll gorge yourself on all you might desire.

– FR

Cripps/ Pink Lady courtesy of Markon

#2 - RED

This year, I decided to use the colours in a traditional rainbow as the inspiration for my seven sonnets. While I am aware that spectral light is more complicated than ROY G BIV, I think focusing on these seven will yield some interesting ideas for poetry. This is the first poem, and I think the colour chosen is obvious.   

Red Sky At Night

The prism splits a humble beam of light, 

and colours manifest like sorcery.

The streak of scarlet, clotting, bold and bright,

as potent as the raging, wine-dark sea. 

Our past, in ochre, painted at Lascaux; 

or cartoon-hearted oaths to prove our thirst;

the Rayleigh scattering of skies aglow

delighting shepherds as their flocks disperse.

The gore that blooms from every slasher flick;

the thrill of claret spilled to seal the deal.

A Rothko reimagined with a click:

invention wrought in vivid cochineal. 

A shade that blossoms, bloody, from the air,

she takes the idle viewer unawares. 

LM

Image via unsplash.com

#1 - Seven Ages: Infant

 This year I shall be taking as my inspiration the 'Seven Ages of Man' speech from Shakespeare's As You Like It. You can find that here.

 

expectant, trepidatious, on we go:

a blooded, squalling babe, a bag of needs.

a home, a crib, a blanket, frequent feeds;

a family to shield us as we grow –

to clean our shit and teach us all they know;

applauding each new victory, and deeds

of escalating wonder; joy that breeds

a freedom bearing out Jean-Jacques Rousseau.

 

this isn’t my own recollection here –

but parenthood has given me mementoes,

and watching my own infants grow is fuel

to re-evaluate my early years:

a curious, stumbling journey which crescendoes –

with smiles and hopeful airs – first day of school.

 

AWB