Two
Elizabethan Sonnets
My Poetic Hat
The Muse who once oiled my
poetic way
and with her seditious match lit my fuse,
who graced my couch, and pressed beside me lay
licking my mind with words of florid hues,
has with one flick of her Medusa hair
cast to perdition my most urgent needs.
I grope for her flesh but find chill despair
and shrug, smiling, while my jilted heart bleeds.
No phrases sage and clever come to mind,
nor philosophies to impress my peers,
no triptych or villanelle do I find
and I weep dry and bitter hopeless tears.
Without my Muse, my poetic bonnet,
all I can do is write a damned sonnet.
Rough
Trade
Roses, well pruned, in serried
ranks look well,
and with restrained pansies genteelly hued
stand pallid guard in rows all parallel.
Beauty with careful regimen imbued.
The humble buttercup, glimmering gold
like elven beacons, dots the field aflame
with wild glory as each new day unfolds.
Will you regard this rampant bloom the same,
although common by heritage and birth,
unsung by poets Tennyson and Blake?
Raw jewels strewn across the verdant earth,
each a riotous hand for you to take.
Do you to a well-groomed, sleek love aspire
or mine: a sprawling, unrefined barbed wire?
Read
Additional Poems by John Irvine
Haiga—song
lyrics stuck;
Haiga—rider
looses race
Ekphrastic
Free Verse Haiga: Little Bo Peep
Book Fair:
Rat
atouille for the rindless
About John
Irvine, NZ