In Uncontrolled Vocabularies, the redoubtable Map made mention of my compilable Haiku from yesterday. Thanks.

Unfortunately, she also offered a challenge: How about the public class Sonnet? This should keep Frank busy for a while.. I'll see what I can do.

In the meanwhile, here is a selection of a few Sonnets (and Sonnet-like) poems that I have written over the years:

In 1990, I took a course in English Language and Literature, which got me interested in some of the more precisely specified forms of poetry. Here's a Sonnet that I wrote for the course. I'm particularly fond of the fragmented "feet" of the Iambic Pentameter in the first stanza, which I feel echoes the "grainy patterns" and "half-deciphered faces".

Guard Duty

Cold and cramped behind the only cover.
Seeing patterns in the grainy star light.
Half deciphered faces form in my sight:
recent dead, a comrade or a lover.

They might be here by dawn, and we must fight;
and so I strain to scan the rocky ground,
and start at every little movement sound,
and wonder what will bring the end of night.

A noise: the skitter of a tiny stone.
My clammy skin anticipates defeat.
My heart goes faster now with every beat,
but fountains blood as blade cuts to the bone!

Thrashing downward toward death from this attack,
I stretch to reach my weapon.  Fade to black.

Following that course, I had a vague idea of writing a "fantasy" novel, contrasting the songs of glorious victory with the gritty reality of the actual deeds. With that in mind, I tried for the oppsite end of the scale. In this one, I'm especially proud of the layered symbolism.

The Forging

When Goroth, Eastfort's mighty Battle Lord
heard evil demons clamour at the gate
he called from Aurangrim the smith, a sword.
A blade long, strong and sharp - a tool of fate.

The smith, in knowledge of her sacred art,
wrought with blazing iron and sorcerous charms.
Her aching muscles pounded with her heart
until, at last, the prize lay in her arms.

Then Goroth, taking hold the tight-bound hide,
swung with full might the blade flat to the stone.
Blade, rock and mailed fist together cried -
from flawless steel - a single joyous tone.

And so he strode to teach both sword and hand
the ways of battle, blood upon the land.

The next sample surprised me. I did a quick google search for "Frank Carver" sonnet and found one that I'd forgotten even writing. I wrote it in the context of a roleplaying game I was in at the time, set in the strange worlds of HP Lovecraft. You can read the whole article on page 12 of this digitised club magazine from 1993, but here's what I consider the most powerful of the poetry I wrote at the time:

What hope has mankind left with no more time,
Where every breath is nine parts fetid smoke,
And birdsong lost behind the engine’s whine.
I can not even cry but only choke.

A world of freaks, twisted, crushed in tiny cells,
Sickly shown and sold for soulless mirth.
The devil giggles, calls them to their hells,
With dying flesh and heart they seek the earth.

So now the time of joy and hope has gone.
Who will weep to see what we have done?

Finally, not a Sonnet, but one that I quite like, nonetheless. I wrote this in 1999, in response to an ad for a "poetry for the internet" competition. Unfortunately, before I could submit it, I found that I was not eligible to enter. Sigh.

Flame

As I look at his words I can feel,
the hairs on the back of my neck.
How could he be so stupid?
How could he write so much dreck?

I can't understand such a viewpoint.
Who let him onto the 'net?
Fuming, I scrabble an answer
I'm ready to send it, I'm set...

Then I notice a few silly letters,
typed in unusual style.
And I see, if I turn my head sideways,
it almost, just, looks like a smile.