Tag Archives: sonnet

The Sonnet Project: Sonnet #2

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This sonnet, like the last, is quite Shakespearean! I must admit, the sort of ambiguous feel of his sonnets (or at least, to our modern English-speaking tongues) makes them quite enjoyably mysterious (and such is the same with these sonnets which I have composed)! I hope, dear readers, that you will read these poems with great gravity and take the time to decipher their true meanings.

yours sincerely,

-Golden Star Poetry

–and a side note: the reference to salt pillars and looking back on fires refers to a story in the bible in which Lot, a biblical character, and his wife,  are instructed by G-d to not look back at  Sodom and Gomorrah being destroyed, but Lot’s wife disobeys G-d and does look back, turning into a pillar of salt.

Sonnet #2

Your eyes are fading in the sunset rimmed

And ice pervades the pupil that was there

Your hands a stonework long and limm’d

Your face so dark that shadows grab your hair

I try to see beyond the mountain west

And hilly landscape in the golden east

But none can make a home that you like best

No cure can calm this coldness in the least

My arms are pillars in the southern skies

And yours that salt returned, from stone

You had to look but one away what lies

At fire raging vast through the unknown.

I hold you in my hands and see you fall

where went our love that seems not here at all?

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry

The Sonnet project: Sonnet #1

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Another poem written during the boredom of English class (whilst we read “shall I compare thee to a summers day yet another time)

Sonnet #1

My life becomes a string of changing lights

Inside my house the candle’s endless drip

That keeps me up throughout the breezy nights

And out my door the lake with port and ship

My sight is strewn to look about and wait

To hear the horn of welcome vessle come

And park itself outside the iron gate

With whistle blow and enjine stop it’s hum

My coverlets that tousle I bemoan

And through the wake of autumn’s slow decline

The firs that hoard the needles that they own

The oaks that mourn the loss of greener vine

They don’t become acquainted with the morn

Of noises fallen through the days reborn

 

Copyright 2013 Golden Star Poetry