Post by LynnDoiron on Dec 2, 2007 1:27:33 GMT -5
[With permission from Maggie, I have taken the last line of her poem to write a second sonnet in what may turn into a crown of sonnets between us. Her "Sonnet for the remnants of November" follows, then mine: "Sonnet for the onset of December" ---- all comments welcome.]
Sonnet for the remnants of November by Mugs
I swear ocean air was my mother's milk,
and that full moon, high tide melodies
bind my DNA with harmonic
flexibility. To me,
there is no such thing
as dissonance from improvising seagulls.
But don't be fooled
by the implication of language.
There is also pain.
And pain, like an upper structure triad
in modal jazz, needs the introduction of contrast
for release, for cutting tension. It is against
the uneven metronomics of the sea
where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief.
Sonnet for the onset of December by Chicky
Where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief
is the fixed ridges found in the ravelings
(the kinkier the better), in the undoing of things
once done. Howsom’ever brief
was the lock with the loop or howsom’ever long--
fibers know. They remember. Left
alone, they will find a same crease and lean just
where they bent and brushed to spoon in song
of some weave or other.
His sweater has been
disassembled, reconfigured to socks, woolen,
warm with brown roses in Fair Isle designs. I
enter December in sweatered feet;
sometimes I dance in his arms.
Sonnet for the remnants of November by Mugs
I swear ocean air was my mother's milk,
and that full moon, high tide melodies
bind my DNA with harmonic
flexibility. To me,
there is no such thing
as dissonance from improvising seagulls.
But don't be fooled
by the implication of language.
There is also pain.
And pain, like an upper structure triad
in modal jazz, needs the introduction of contrast
for release, for cutting tension. It is against
the uneven metronomics of the sea
where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief.
Sonnet for the onset of December by Chicky
Where I go to handle the bitchwork of grief
is the fixed ridges found in the ravelings
(the kinkier the better), in the undoing of things
once done. Howsom’ever brief
was the lock with the loop or howsom’ever long--
fibers know. They remember. Left
alone, they will find a same crease and lean just
where they bent and brushed to spoon in song
of some weave or other.
His sweater has been
disassembled, reconfigured to socks, woolen,
warm with brown roses in Fair Isle designs. I
enter December in sweatered feet;
sometimes I dance in his arms.
