Damn it.

Between working my ass off this week and pfutzing about with various freelancing crap, I'm completely dry. (shudder) I can't seem to get my head into it this week.

So I'm sorry, guys. I'll probably backlog at some point to fill it in, but for now... my bad.

Also, I'm moving posting day to Thursday. Trying to write right after a Sunday night shift is like trying to piss into a thimble.

It's Only One Step

Well, we did it. We've elected Barack Obama to the highest office that we know of here in the States. And not only that, the Democrats control both the House and the Senate. We're at a critical place here, ladies and gentlemen. This is the time to get things done.

So what now?

I really hope someone out there's got a plan, because this is just one step in a long, long road - not just for our economy or our boys "over there", but for our bloody dignity as Americans.

Good luck, Mr. President. You're gonna need it.


It's Only One Step

Faith, (known as Hoping It Were So)
prevailed. And so we cheer, we take the streets
in our gigantic hands, we hold them sweet,
and on, the Faithful march in messy rows.
"Change!" we cry! Our Hope to over-throw
what was before consumes us with conceit,
our new-lust foams our breath, our mouths excrete
the strangest of the blessings that we know.

But through it all, there infiltrates a wraith
of shaken nerves, the road ahead's reply.
"What now?" a voice cries out; it could be any
of us here, the Faithful - we are many.
Slow, but true, we ask with tongues and eyes
this question. And once more we turn to Faith.

I'm sorry, man.

For Damon

Words are insufficient, as is prayer,
heartfelt hugs, or pattings on the back,
or lingered gazes, thickening the air
with sympathy. The cavalcade of black
does nothing, nor the Godsman's honeyed words,
nor bitter tears wrung out of you today,
tomorrow, or the next. The days will blur
together, all the colors turn to gray.

But time will pass, and you will know she's gone.
Her face will start to disappear from view,
her voice will fade. And you will carry on;
For better or for worse, it's up to you.
The colors brighten up. The rain feels wetter.
It never goes away, but you get better.


We're here for you, brother. For what it's worth, our thoughts and prayers (where applicable) are with you.

The Deaths of Things

This one's for my dear friend Lauren. Cheers, kiddo; here's to hoping your living situation gets a little less awkward with time.


The Deaths of Things

Failing light, or other deaths like that
are fascinating things to watch, my dear.
Take, for instance, us. What led us here,
what convolutions railed and laid us flat?
Was it the lack of trust? Oh, yes, perhaps
it was your sticky fingers rifling through
my e-mails. Checking my old calls for clues
of fallacy, or fault. And we collapsed
into this feckless heap, this shallow home.
A wreck of things, don't you agree, my dove?
And oh, what lofty heights we set for us;
but heights are high, and love devours love.
Our future could not hold, and we are thus:
The two of us, together, and alone.

On Stuff

(cough) I'm not backlogging. Who said I was backlogging? This sonnet was totally on time.


On Stuff

It's rare, the stuff that gives my spirit rise -
not swaths of light. Those perfect, shining skies
don't work for me. I never caught my breath
on gilded seas, or sunlight's daily death.

Give me instead a girl with patient thighs,
an unrepentant bowl of soup. The warmth
of February frost.  A thunderstorm.

I hear a lot of talk of wondrous sights,
of beauty in this world. The pallid heights
are fallacy. Beauty always dies.

And beauty never cares about you, too.
So why seek beauty? Know what's true to you.
I want a life without too many lies,
a quiet death, and all that it implies.

As I Lie Dying

There's only one downside to the advent of autumn, and that's getting sick at the first severe drop in temperature. Damn this humidity, and damn this cold. I don't know about you guys, but when I get sick, all I want to do is lie in a heap of my own misery and pray for death.

It gets you thinking, though, since you're incapable of anything more than putting on old episodes of Futurama and making mug after mug of tea. Funny how an art form that thrives on misery should have so little about this fundamental unhappiness.


As I Lie Dying

There aren't many poems on being sick.
I thought of that today as I lay prone
upon my sweaty bed, hemmed in by
half-drunk cups of juice and wads of snot
balled up in tissue. Gross, I know, but true;
it's part of life, like death, a shitty job,
or saying that you love someone you don't,
or taking out the trash on Monday night.
Seems there should be poems written of it.
Mundane, perhaps, but poignant nonetheless:
a quiet struggle on these hapless sheets.
There is no nobler fight than where I lie,
evaluating where I am and why,
and wishing I were better than I was.

Nights Like These

Sorry it's so late today, kids. I had an idea knocking around in my head last night, but I couldn't really get it into lines until today. I'm still not happy with it, but when you're over sixteen hours past deadline, you learn to accept these things. And on the off chance that anyone thinks it's about you, you're probably right.


Nights Like These

Nights like these are rare, these nights of peace;
nights like tonight, just sitting by myself.
When all the world is empty, sound asleep,
and all within is quiet. All is well.
The glass of whiskey gives me no release;
the strains of blues don't take me off the shelf.
They're company, they're friends of heavy deep,
But they're not while I smile tonight. I'll tell
you this - alone's the sweetest time for me,
booze and music drowning out the light;
it's not so bad in shadow when you see
that someone's there to make it seem alright.
And yeah, it's just a sense. Might not be true,
but I'll smile tonight, alone, thinking of you.

On the Art of Thought Retention

My brain's so fried from playing Rock Band 2 all day that I had some serious difficulties sitting down and writing this tonight. Nevertheless, what started out as frustration turned into one of my favorite things about being a writer - playing with language. Remember what I said about tetrameter a few months back? That sing-songy texture to it makes this a lot of fun to read. Check to make sure no one's listening, then give it a shot.


On the Art of Thought Retention

When thought, a thought's in instant measured,
tried and scanned at heartless pace,
judged and lost, and thickly treasured -
Aught is augured, all's erased.
And on and on these thoughts encrease,
recurse, recourse, repress, repeat.
And all for what? A thought's release
recoils, and to itself retreats.
So think of this: that thought you had
you've had before, you'll have again;
for such is thought, each thought to add
to thoughts of folly. Such is then
that all you do is all you can,
and hope to end what you began.

Calm

It's been a good day. I won't bore you with the details, but for the first time in a while, everything seemed like it was under control today. (snort) We'll see how long that lasts.

Nothing fancy with this one, but I think I'm starting to get a handle on my "voice" again. Forgive the use of the term, but it's what we poetry nerds use to denote what makes a written piece unique to its author. In my case, it's weird similes.


Calm

I wasn't quite expecting it today.
Today was just another in a string
of mostly-wasted days, of puttering
about the house. A day to shrug away.
But sometime in the empty afternoon,
I had a book in hand, a comfy chair,
some symphony or other in the air,
when all the world went quiet as a spoon.
I will admit, I freaked a little then;
(for after all, these things are rare as stars)
I worried, fretted, tried to make it stay.
But then I stopped. I smiled, I let it play
its way through me. I'll let it leave its scars,
and let it pass, and hope it comes again.

Stop Touching All My Stuff.

Yep. One day late. Sorry again, all two of my readers. Won't happen again.

This one's for you, Courtney. You have my sympathies, dearheart. There's nothing worse than a sick roommate. My suggestion - a shotgun and some fire. Then some Vitamin C, just to be sure.


Stop Touching All My Stuff

You wipe your nose, then rifle through my notes.
You hack, you spit your plague with every huff,
you sound like seven toads are in your throat.
You're sick. Please stop touching all my stuff.
Back! Stay back, I do not have the time
for ghastly pallor, for mucous on my cuff
in three-crust layers! Keep your sickly slime
away from me. Stop touching all my stuff!
I see it now - the pictures on the news
of droves afflicted, pestilent and dying.
The pox you've spread! A holocaust ensues -
the lives destroyed by you! The children crying!
Its root, one Patient Zero - you. Enough!
I beg of you, stop touching all my stuff.

Oops!

Yeah, between the amount of traveling I've done all weekend and the amount of meat I ingested last night, I totally forgot what day it was. I'll have a sonnet up by the end of the day, I promise.

Ode to Steak

There comes a point in time in every writer's life when they're just not feeling it. And when that happens, it's up to the writer to fall back, to regroup, to get in touch with what really moves them. For me, that's steak. Sweet, delicious comfort and luxury all in one. There's nothing better for the soul, really, than to find what Rogers your Hammerstein and go with it. Too many people forget that, and that's a damn shame.


Ode to Steak

I ate a steak today. It was delicious.
Lusty lines of fat embraced the meat;
Age had made it tender, ripe, ambitious,
Ready - no, salacious for the heat.
A dash of salt, a coat of pepper ground,
and oh! What sacred scent I did endure.
Scent led to taste, and what a taste profound -
Say what you will, that moment's joy was pure.

So let you vaunted versists squawk your lines,
Your love and loss, your mountain's majesties.
Love fades to bore, loss whimpers to a whine,
and mountains never mattered much to me.
Thrust your sweaty loins until you ache,
I'll keep my simple pleasures. Give me steak.

This

I... y'know, every once in a while, I write something I can't explain. It's a mood thing. There's little relevant here, but... eh, whatever. It feels like it echoes through a lot of things that are going on right now.


This

I don't want to do this.
I'm tired. I'm so tired.
The words are uninspired.
I don't want to do this.
Tired. I don't want this.
Force the act, for what?
It's useless. In a rut.
Tired. I don't want this.
It hurts me to do this.
Nothing makes the cut.
Nothing is required.
Done. Now seal it shut.
Forget what's transpired.
I didn't want to do this.

I'll Hold You Now

I was thinking the other day how much I missed writing other forms of formal poetry. The villanelle, for example, is just so much fun to compose. It's a typically light-hearted form based on repetition and I usually love writing them, but between my internship and all these sonnets, I just don't have the time to play around with other forms.

Or do I?

What's to keep us from hybridizing forms? Heck, I did it a few weeks ago with the ballad form in Rise of Ace, why can't I do it with a villanelle?


I'll Hold You Now

I wanted something beautiful to hold,
but beauty is a thing that cannot stay.
Not one of us can ever be so bold.

Oh, how I tried! A night out in the cold,
my arms around you shamed the warmth of day.
And that was something beautiful to hold.

But time is time, and time makes beauty old,
and oldness led to time you spent astray.
And stray you did. You ever were so bold.

Your throat was clay; my hands became the mold,
I shaped you still, the flush of my dismay.
And still you were, so beautiful to hold.

You, my love, are beautiful to hold.
I'll hold you now, if I may be so bold.


Man, I love how a simple comma can change the entire meaning of a line. For those of you who think punctuation's for nerds, up yours.

Sorry, Guys.

What with moving and everything, I don't have internet until Wednesday. So take a break, kiddies, and rest assured that I'll be back next week.

Portrait of My Father

When I was growing up, my father was a hardass. He was strict, he always acted like he knew best, he always tried to tell my brothers and I what to do and the right way to do it. I resented it then; heck, what punk kid doesn't?

But time changes perspective. I see my father now, retired, his children all grown up... and I know that he never wanted to be a pain in our ass. He smiles now, he laughs with all his heart. He just wanted his kids to turn out right. He didn't want his kids to fuck up.

Today was my uncle's funeral. My father's kid brother died rather suddenly last week, and what killed me was watching the pain on his face as he said goodbye. When I was a kid, he couldn't be just an ordinary man, he had to be a father, an immovable pillar of morality for his children to strive for. Today, he was just a man, in pain, just like everyone else.

Mahal kita, Tatay.


Portrait of My Father, July 28, 2008

I knew you as a mountain of a man
in younger years - yieldless, unforgiving.
You steered with timeless, steady hands
our creasing blood. And yet the stone was living -
Your laughter shook the earth, your anger stilled;
We quaked and heeded, we rallied and we grew.
You raised us to succeed you. We fulfilled,
and from your mountaintop, your children flew.

Today, I watched your quiet agony
as mother, father, wife and brother, each
you kissed with fingers, blessed their ever-sleep;
Your whispered words abroad, an empty reach.
I knew it then, that even mountains weep.
And in that moment, you, at last, were free.

What Kind of Life

Man, I'm getting dumped on at work, which is ironic, since it doesn't really qualify as work as I don't get paid, and I'm not "at" work at all, since I work from home. How great would it be if everything were properly organized? Probably not all that great.


What Kind of Life

Life imitates art, so they say
But when? When does all the content
settle into lines of measure, stable rhymes,
easy quatrains, a turn halfway through?
To be so lucky! Know each meeting
Ended in fourteen lines,
Hear a couplet and know the relationship
Is over.
Everything done in one hundred
and forty syllables, so neat, so orderly,
Wishful thinking, I suppose. But what kind of
Life - to know the patterns, to see it coming,
To know that at your funeral
two rhyming lines, together, follow you into the ground?

(A man's gotta break from form at some point. It's hard work, all this syllabic intricacy.)

The Rise of Ace

Hee. I've always been a fan of narrative poetry. I like storytelling, but it lends itself more to a balladic form rather than a sonnet. So I thought to myself... well, why not hybridize? Since ballads are usually in alternating tetrameter and trimiter, I just wrote this one in septameter to give it that rollicking ballad feel.


The Rise of Ace

Ace was feeling low one day; he turned to Deuce and said,
"We never count for anything; we're filler for the deck.
Woe to us! Our faces bare, we're barely worth the check,
Our pips are few, I wish we were the King and Queen instead."
Deuce looked at Ace, his pips ablaze, he spoke a seedy scheme.
"Why, Ace," he said, "It seems to me that this is not your lot.
You should be King - no, higher, for the King's a lowly slot!
Those face cards, why, they're nothing! You're the first in my esteem."
Ace listened well to Deuce's words, he told King of his plans.
The King, he shrugged. "Do what you like, fulfill all your desires.
I've got my Queen beneath me; I don't care what else transpires."
And thusly, Ace assumed his seat as sovereign of the land.
Conniving Deuce then raised his voice! "I'm twice the card of you!"
Ace shook his head. "I'm sorry, Deuce. You're just a lowly two."

Five's The Count

This one's a little weird. I was thinking about what goes through my head when I'm writing sonnets, and just sort of idly tapping out lines when this one started to form itself. Don't think of it as an instructional... it's more of a stream-of-consciousness thing. Anyone who engages in any sort of creative activity - think about what's running through your head when you're in the thick of it. Maybe you'll understand what I mean.


Five's The Count

Five's the count (each count's a foot), and measure.
What's been said - then think what follows next.
What steers the thought? Now, steady. Guide the text.
Careful. Easy. Let each line be leisure.
Entwine the lines, but let not lines be vexed
for lining's sake. Remember. Free the thought.
Let it breathe, let it be shaped and wrought.
Forge it. An idea. See it flexed
against itself. Keep the meaning taut.
Make it tight. Guide it, unperplexed.
Keep it honest. Let the lines be pleasure.
Steady-hand it home. The flowered thought
will breathe and bloom. Ideas steer the text,
but five's the count. Count it well, and measure.

Drunk

Title says it all, bitches. I had something else I was totally going to work on for this week, but the rhyme scheme was driving me nuts. It'll be up next week, I'm sure. Also, I've been drinking Bloody Marys all damn day. So suck it up. And enjoy sucking it up. Suckers.


Drunk

Whaddya want? Fuck, I'm drunk, you bitches
want a sonnet? It's Tuesday, yeah, I said
I'd keep a schedule. But right now, my head
feels like a foot. Each synapse twitches,
fails, and every thought - it fucking itches
just like herpes. I wish that I were dead
asleep right now. But you, for you, instead
I spin my lines, these blasted lines that fall
so easy from these tattered fingertips;
these words that never leave these tired lips,
they clatter from my hands. Are you enthralled
by this? Because Lord knows I'm in stitches.
Drunk as I am, foot-headed I may be,
but I can write this sonnet just for thee.


I love you all. Fuckers.

(sorry about the increased amount of cursing in the last few weeks.)

A Note For Ted, In Case You're Still Alive

Yeah, I'm kind of in a silly mood this week. Watched Zombie Strippers! this week, so I've kind of had the unholy masses stuck in my head. The movie, by the way, was totally awesome.


A Note For Ted, In Case You're Still Alive

Here they come! The groans, the baleful glares,
the gnashing teeth, the stench of the undead;
Goddamned zombies. We've been trapped downstairs
for hours now. "Just shoot them in the head,
guys, just shoot them in the head," said Claire,
Our erstwhile host, before that cunt-bitch fled
on the last boat. If we survive, I swear:
No more villas on the Isle of Dread.
We left you in a closet of some sort,
No way out, but no way in as well -
But, fuck! Shit, they've broken through the door!
Grab that shotgun, man, and give 'em hell.
Hold steady, breathe, and may your aim be true,
Or in two scenes, our target'll be you.

I Have My Days

Well, it's my birthday. The big two-nine, the last birthday of my twenties. It got me thinking about the last decade or so, how far I've come, how little I've done with my life. It's a contemplative time; from here on out, it's just a countdown to 30.

Once, a long time ago, I knew what I was doing. Everything was clear, every step I took had purpose. Time does something to that. It distracts you, it shakes your will. It wears you down. But hey, that's life, neh? It's all you can do to keep going.


I Have My Days

It's been a while, but I remember when
I thought I'd live forever. Hell, who never
wore that mask? I was immortal then,
a howling beast, so indolent and clever.
The worldlust burned; whenever I so chose,
whatever I desired would be mine.
No consequence! The future was a rose
clutched in my hand; my will. My design.
But now, the mirror tells a different story,
one lined with stuttered fear and idle pain.
A touch of memory lost and shallow glory,
the humble, hollow breath of what remains.
I have my days. There, in the eye, a spark
of what I was; a fist clenched in the dark.

A Flash of Pink

For those of you who've been wondering where the hell I've been all week, I wrote you a sonnet:


A Flash of Pink

A flash of pink; ferocious blues,
A hopshot scotch to a common day,
Old-school grit meets new tattoos;
Lots to look at, lots to say.

Twists of limbs in twos ensues,
Details fuzzy - that's okay,
Play again, what's there to lose?
Two feet's too far to fly away.

Four-plus days, laughing, bare,
Easy silence, dancing swine,
Countless smokes and war wounds shared,
Fast-track lovin', slow-spent time.

Born of liquor, forged in sin,
Cash me out. Count me in.


If you'll notice, I wrote this one in tetrameter. I've noticed (after reading a balls-ton of Shakespeare's sonnets recently) that pentameter slows the poem down into a pleasant rhythmic flow; the asymmetrical foot count leads to a more leisurely pace when reading through a work. Tetrameter, on the other hand, keeps the pace faster, especially since each line can be broken up into two phrases as they are here. And considering the breakneck pace at which these last few days have moved, I decided to clip the last foot off to keep the poem moving. Let me know if it worked.

Goodbyes.

Figured I'd kick off with an Italian-style sonnet, since after years of writing Shakespeareans, I'm a little burned out on the form. It's still my go-to form for when I'm uninspired, so don't worry, you'll be seeing a lot of 'em. In the meantime, though...


Goodbyes

"Je n'aime plus la vie," she said today.
She smiled at me, that empty sort of smile
my mother wore as we drove every mile
from church to grave. She never heard me say
goodbye to her, she never heard me pray
for mercy through the haze of tears and bile
as I lay drunk upon a bed of tile.
Sweet wrenching pain, you never went away.

But this, this is a different sort of pain,
no burning lance; instead, a vacant sigh.
A pastless girl who's never tasted you,
the morning's vapid fuck still on her skin.
Another one won't hear me say goodbye.
"Yeah," I said. "I'm tired of it too."

Countdown.

Well, I'm one week away from starting this whole process, which means I'm going to have to start writing this week. I figured since I started two weeks ago, I should at least get into the rhythm of posting on Tuesdays. So I'll lead off with a sonnet I wrote a while ago. I used to be really proud of it, but it's lost its luster nowadays. Still has to do with sonnets, though - very "meta".


On Sonneteering

Say the words we know we need to say.
Own these words, and bring them into light.
Never more than freedom can betray,
Never less than memory can recite.
Embrace these words, and lead them not astray;
Truth will bear these words beyond what's right.
Erudition supercedes the day;
Eloquence will sublimate the night.
Righteousness must be our shining gray,
Inconsequent of white and black's delight,
Night and day must never have their sway;
Gradients are never all that bright.

(now stop, and look at all that verbal steering.
it isn't easy work, this sonneteering.)


Enjoy, kiddies. See you next week.

(and yes, I promise not to write any more acrostics.)

Further Clarification.

After a conversation I've had tonight, I just want to clear up something that I was taking for granted. The phrase "iambic pentameter" is pretty self-explanatory to me, but I'm starting to realize that not everyone's as much of a poetry nerd as I am. So. To the guy that was trying to convince Ashley and Jami that iambic pentameter stems from Japanese haiku because they have the number five attached to both of them in some odd way:

I fear you may be misinformed. To wit,
I'll pass this definition on to you:
"A line of five metrical feet." That's it.
There's nothing there that ever has to do
with haiku; that map - five, seven, five
was bastardized when Americans
thought it'd be fun to fuck around and dive
into a form beyond their clumsy hands.
It's not syllabic count. It's rhythmic feet.
It's stresses, falls, and how they interact.
It has to do with fundamental beat,
and how they form a line when they are stacked.
Look, if after this, it's still unclear,
Then I can only tell you to click here.

Hope that clears things up a little. Yeah, I stuck a dactyl in there, and more than a few outright one-stress words, but sue me. It's frakkin' six in the morning.

Welcome!

Greetings, gentlefolk, and welcome to The Weekly Sonnet. Now, the site itself doesn't launch for another two weeks, but I figured I'd take this time to explain what this site is all about.

What's a sonnet?
The term "sonnet" comes from the Italian "sonetto", or "little song". The invention of the sonnet is credited to a 13th century Italian poet named Giacomo da Lentini, and popularlized by none other than Shakespeare. If you don't know who he is, you should probably get off the internet for a few minutes and read a book.

The sonnet is a fourteen-line poem that introduces, contemplates, and finishes a complete thought. Throughout the years, that thought has usually had something to do with love, philosophy, or a combination of the two, but deviations have existed since its conception. This process is typically split up into two sections: the octave, which describes the situation or idea, and the sestet, which brings the idea to a close. These two primary sections are often broken down into stanzas and/or couplets, and traditionally, sonnets are written in iambic pentameter.

In terms of rhyme scheme, sonnets typically come in two flavors; English (or Shakespearean) sonnets rock the ababcdcdefefgg, while Italian (or Petrarchan) sonnets go with a less straightforward style of abbaabbacdecde. And while these two types are the most common, everyone from Wordsworth to Dylan Thomas has popped out of these schemes at their leisure.

What's this site all about?
The Weekly Sonnet is going to be an exploration into the world of sonnets. Time has weathered the standards on what a sonnet really is, and using this site, I want to poke around in those boundaries by spinning a new sonnet every week. Some will be traditional, straight-laced works, some will push the envelope on the definition of a sonnet, and some will just be me playing around with language. But most of all, this site is my excuse to write on a regular basis. After all, I'm not exactly a writer if I don't write.

The Weekly Sonnet will officially launch on June 3rd, and will be updated on Tuesdays after that. I wish I could tell you there's a set time I'll be updating, but I drink way too much to set that in stone. I'll be shooting for the midnight before, but there will be times where I'll miss that deadline. I'm a slacker, you'll have to deal with that.

Edit: I figured out how to schedule posts, which means no late sonnets unless I really miss the boat that week. The sonnets will be posted every Tuesday at midnight.

Well, that's it for now. I hope you enjoy the poetry that's to come. Heck, I hope I enjoy it. But there's really only one way to find out. See you kids in two weeks.