Archive for the ‘sonnets’ Tag

“Now who is there to share a joke with?”

The words in this post’s title are Ezra Pound’s when he heard of T. S. Eliot’s death.

By chance, I was reminded that eleven years ago today, 10 June, a friendship of mine ended, one of that kind mourned by Pound at the loss of his friend.

Understandably, this friend, “Laszlo” in the poem, below, shows up in no small number of my poems, by various names. I share here this one, a joke, for those who might get the formal allusion, memorializing the last time he, I, and the third of our trio, all lived in the same city.

Guido, i' vorrei, vasel

A sonnet is a moment’s &tc.

Laszlo, I wish you, and George, and I

were in that calèche, stalled in traffic,

left, McGill’s gate, Place Ville Marie right,

you flying to love in Holland. Straight out

Upstairs you hailed the passing, empty carriage.

We stopped at a dep George ran in for beer,

our cool québécoise driver declining

a draw or drink. Who can say why

she took the route she did, knowing you‘d

lived here forty years? Just, there we were,

Guiness sixpack shared around, a blue smoke

cloud coughing fit, riding high, our post-

Stammtisch Triangulation Finale

for all rush hour to see, invisible.

A Sonot at Easter: “Come out of the cave…”

Back in the early Nineties of last century (!) when I wrote this poem, the fashion among many Canadian (at least) poets was to write sonnet sequences. By chance, one day, I wrote a poem (“I know the Aurora Borealis” in Grand Gnostic Central) that happened to have fourteen lines. That chance (which to my ear happily rhymes with ‘chants’) occurrence began an ongoing, half-satirical series of accidentally-fourteen-line poems I called variously over the years “soughknots” (literally “air-knots”) and here “sonots” (so not sonnets!).

Its being Easter Sunday brought to mind the opening line and title of another sonot from Ladonian Magnitudes, “Come out of the cave…”, a poem marked by if not marking the emergence of sociality with the warmer days of spring. Of course, now, with the social distancing imposed by Covid-19, getting out into the warmer sunshine is more delayed than it was in 1992, but, then, the poem wanders through art and memory, too, where we can all sojourn until we emerge from this present staid-of-emergency.

 

“Come out of the cave…”

 

Come out of the cave

Spring’s first cold night

After an afternoon on the Thing with George

Embryons desséchés and six Gnosiennes, followed by Sonatine bureaucratique and Le Picadilly in the air

This time the third

I think of the natural periodical ecstasy

We call sleep

And consequently dream

Washing and drying the dishes

After the red cabbage, letcho, and potatoes sour-style

Everything put away in place for tomorrow

I pour the hot milk into the yoghurt jars

Remembering measuring solutions in Chemistry

Certain of the results