(I often am at a lost as to what I will write each month, not knowing what it will be until I come up with it. No doubt, that would have been the case again this month were it not for something I did in December, something I never had done before. That month, I wrote what I planned to post for February. Why? Only fate and irony have the answer to that. After re-reading it, I’ve decided to publish it as is).

Not long after I met my wife, I found among her books a little, palm-of the-hand sized, hardback volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets. I had no idea the book contained only a few of them, that he had written 154. At that point, I had read only a few of his plays and had seen a few on stage and screen, but my only encounter with his sonnets was having heard — more than a few times — that famous opening line of Sonnet 18. Now, here it was before me for the first time, in its entirety, and I had a chance to read beyond a line that had become something often recited as a joke.

I did not know at the time that there is a specific rhythm and rhyme in what he wrote and did not pay attention to it at first. My own stabs at poetry have no set order to it that I would be able to point out. When I read poets, I either like what they write or don’t. I like a poem for its own reasons and, whatever those reasons are, they are not based on any critical analysis.

Around the same time I discovered the sonnets, I joined six other aspiring poets (Gideon Ferebee, Gregory Ford, Essex Hemphill, Oliver Jackson, Andre Ramseur, and Garth Tate) to form what became Station-to-Station Performance Poets and Writers’ Collective. Eventually joined by others, we soon found ourselves performing poetry all over the city in nightclubs and coffeehouses, on the stages of theaters and street festivals, even in government offices – including the mayor’s. Jokingly one day, my not-yet wife asked why I had not written a poem for her. Jokingly, I wrote one. Having read her book of The Bard’s sonnets but still not knowing what a sonnet was, I titled the poem “Sonnet One.” It was a hit with her.

It was later that I learned a sonnet has a certain meter and rhyming scheme, and I began to see possibilities. Instead of being subject to the whims of inspiration alone, there was an actual blueprint based upon which a work could be built, so I tried my hand at building what I thought might sound like a romantic, Shakespearian-ish sonnet. I titled it “Sonnet 118”, still unaware Shakespeare had written 154, thinking at the time that – maybe — I would write a hundred, seventeen more. Ha! In the thirty-plus years since, there have been only five others, four of which I previously inflicted upon you poor readers in February 2014.

Anyway, we are nearing that time when some are prone to romantic notions, given that the 14^th day of this month has become a hyped-up, Hallmark holiday. There is little care about saints when there is sex and/or chocolate to be had. So, in keeping with the spirit of that approaching day, I share with you Sonnet One (a misnomer) and Sonnet 118 (which very well may be a misnomer).

Sonnet One

Is it poetry you want,

ethereal sounds conjuring forgotten visions,

like: the wind blowing clouds but spoken out loud,

words that soar like birds,

smooth words, slick words sliding into place?

Why sit with pen in hand awhile when there is poetry in your smile,

when there is poetry in the warmth of your embrace?

Is it poetry you want,

chant of the Magi echoing the Music of the Sky,

like: the tides at their times but flowing in rhyme,

psalms that soothe like balms,

fine lines, glib verse gleaming bright as gold?

Why sit with pen in hand awhile when there is poetry in your smile,

when you are poetry for my eyes to just behold?

 

Sonnet 118

In daydreams, you and I lie in moonglow.

We are entwined; we are slowly moving.

It is just a trick of the mind – I know —

a sly, little jest once again proving

a thought, sometimes, is a mischievous friend,

conjuring scenes of that which cannot be.

I bid it, “Be still!”, it wants to pretend.

Reverie — sweeter than reality —

rushes forth, keeping common sense at bay;

such visions do not easily abate.

But, hope hovers near at the end of day,

and truth does not have very long to wait.

Fantasy becomes factual delight

when you, my love, lie in my arms tonight.