Seven Days of Russell (full crown)

(Russell J Turner)
This year I used the seven days of the week as prompts for a crown of sonnets

With various words from various songs by various artists

1) Blue Monday

...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...

2) Ruby Tuesday

...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...

3) A Wednesday Car

...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...

4) I Lost Thursday

...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...

5) Friday on My Mind

...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...

6) Drive-in Saturday

...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...

7) Sunday Morning

...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

Cardinal Signs (aka Seven Sins of Fay: Full Crown)

 

(You would not believe how long this took Fay Roberts to put this graphic together)

Full text for the Seven Deadly Sins follows:

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 🍎
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 🍎
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? 🍎
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! 🍎
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? 🍎
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 🍎
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.

Seven Ages of Andy (full crown)

 

William Mulready. image credit: V&A Museum London

1.       Infancy

 

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.

 

2.       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.

 

3.       Lover

 

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.

 

4.       Soldier

 

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, my comrade, wreathed in loving glory.

 

5.       Judge

 

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.

 

 

6.       Old Age

 

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.

 

 

7.       Second Childhood

 

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