This is an example of a moment penned with one line, and come back to a week or two, later, by the author, me. I am a jotter of my emotings, some I can read the next day, some I can't. Some are early mornings musings, others, late night ravings. They all have beginnings. What we, as Poets have to do, is recover all meanings we've seen or penned a line of, if we drop the thought off the face of the map, where does it go? I needed to write, something, couldn't find anything new, so, I worked with the first line, and plunged into a rhythmic, lovely pattern which felt wonderful! Not only did I write a sonnet, I thumbed my nose AT sonnets...
Nothingness
Her eyes are scourged by nothingness, her mind
Feels blind, cannot find its happiness. Her
Hands are scared of witnesses, previewed kind
Precludes true bliss, nothingness wins -- preferred.
Her heart is purging speciousness, her kind
Of mind cannot find its happiness. Her
Hands are scarred by wishfulness, misaligned
By shallow mind, nothingness-sins transferred.
Her soul has merged with nothingness, confined,
Mankind cannot find its happiness. Her
Hands are scarfed by wistfulness, intertwined
With loneliness, nothingness grins – concurred.
Her life converged with nothingness, entwined,
Combined exists – nothingness twins, interred.
Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
© Copyright 6/23/05
Nothingness: A Sonnet
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This forum does not autoprune.
Hi Erin, this is cleverer than first read shows of course you Need not rhyme a sonnet I found the parenthetical close very Poignant. You have infarct picked one of the hardest ways to write In this form, a follow on word on each sentence is difficult to get Correct [the flow and imagery] I think this is a very commendable Effort Erin and applaud you for it.
Richard
Richard
Why, thank you, Richard! This beauty took days, langoring while I thought and wept (I always do that, ask anyone here...), unheard for a sonnet from me, unless there's more to it I lack, and must find.
There is such a song in words, not just a song, a symphony, when composed with 'feeling' and not other's thoughts or sociaities rules. If I use rhyme to create a song, who can tell me it is not proper? Am I harming anyone? Do I bring disgrace to Poetry? Am I unintelligent?
Hell, no! I am me. I want to show universes through words. And, if I follow another, it won't happen.
When I was growing up, I had this Cat Short Story Anthology. I loved it! Animals, of any sort preferred, are marvels. I read it over and over, in the next ten years, I can do that, read anything more than once, and enjoy it as much, if not more, because of the nuances you find with every read. I remember this one story in particular, not the author, but that is not what I retain, it was the story. Primoridial, a fable... It was called "The Cat That Walked Alone". It epitomized, to me, how I felt, alone. On the Outside. But, I felt just like the Cat, I knew I would get scraps and an occasional petting, and, the rest of the time, the time I selfishly retained and contained into my Cat self, would be mine. It suited me fine.
(Do you think it was a cat in serpent's clothing that convinced Eve to Partake of the Two Trees? The rubbing of scaley fur against her legs? The reason Adam was only given one fruit? Cats are feminine entities...)
Back then, we willingly allowed ourselves to be conditioned, remember the precursor, Pong?, the technology was worth it, our souls, were not, they were nothing, a farce, a time-tale of prodigious pride of storytelling.
Hell was looming, we didn't know how to stop the fire, of The Inferno, but, then in fell into our midst, in the form of planes and buildings, and killed us all. And, worst of all, many trusted people knew it, or its equivalent, was going to happen. We did, but refused to see the Time was Now.
There is such a song in words, not just a song, a symphony, when composed with 'feeling' and not other's thoughts or sociaities rules. If I use rhyme to create a song, who can tell me it is not proper? Am I harming anyone? Do I bring disgrace to Poetry? Am I unintelligent?
Hell, no! I am me. I want to show universes through words. And, if I follow another, it won't happen.
When I was growing up, I had this Cat Short Story Anthology. I loved it! Animals, of any sort preferred, are marvels. I read it over and over, in the next ten years, I can do that, read anything more than once, and enjoy it as much, if not more, because of the nuances you find with every read. I remember this one story in particular, not the author, but that is not what I retain, it was the story. Primoridial, a fable... It was called "The Cat That Walked Alone". It epitomized, to me, how I felt, alone. On the Outside. But, I felt just like the Cat, I knew I would get scraps and an occasional petting, and, the rest of the time, the time I selfishly retained and contained into my Cat self, would be mine. It suited me fine.
(Do you think it was a cat in serpent's clothing that convinced Eve to Partake of the Two Trees? The rubbing of scaley fur against her legs? The reason Adam was only given one fruit? Cats are feminine entities...)
Back then, we willingly allowed ourselves to be conditioned, remember the precursor, Pong?, the technology was worth it, our souls, were not, they were nothing, a farce, a time-tale of prodigious pride of storytelling.
Hell was looming, we didn't know how to stop the fire, of The Inferno, but, then in fell into our midst, in the form of planes and buildings, and killed us all. And, worst of all, many trusted people knew it, or its equivalent, was going to happen. We did, but refused to see the Time was Now.
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Re: Nothingness: A Sonnet
An' it harm none, do what ye will. Blessed Be.
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