Sonnettics

You’re on my mind a lot; I like you there
Although, within my arms is nice as well
I wonder how I found you.  Do I dare
Undress you with my mind?  Hmmmm.  Time will tell
I love it when my sonnets look to you
To let them borrow beauty from your soul
I love your gifted words, and all they do
As I unwrap them all, and lose control
I love to think that I am on your mind
Although, within your arms would be preferred
I lose control, but you can help me find
The ecstasy that’s been too long defered
Come, let me touch you softly, skin-to-skin
Then slowly let you guide me deep within

I guess there is a plan for you and me
I don’t know what it is, but I survived
The crash, the pain; I know I chose “To be”
My part is not like Hamlet’s, not contrived
And you, my love, survived and kept your heart
Compassion is the gift you choose to give
I guess there is a plan, though we’re apart
My plan is you; for you I want to live!
I know we’ve talked about intensity
I know it’s hard to take emotions, thus
But know as well, it’s not futility
It’s faith and hope I have in you, in us
Whatever plan there is, I know it’s good
If I must crash again, you know I would.

You shouldn’t need to be afraid of love
I understand, it hurt you bad before
I don’t know what the fool was thinking of
But rain will come, and sometimes it will pour!
The floods of life are awful, scary things
They wash away some things we want to keep
You feel the loss that rushing chaos brings
You fight to stay afloat in rivers, deep
But, look around; the world is also green
And flowers grow with roots that feed them life
More beautiful than anything you’ve seen
Amidst the storms, intensity is rife
Don’t be afraid of love; through storms of pain
Your flowers and your beauty will remain.

She tied my passion firmly to the bed
Then climbed on top of me and let it loose
She listened to each word my body said
Her touch was soft, discrete, but not obtuse
Impassioned by her touch, her skin-to-skin
Distracted by her beauty, I was awed
I felt her pleasure move me deep within
Her warmth, her wetness; nothing there was flawed
The silk was strong, she wrapped around my wrists
Control was hers; I let her take it all
My memory of her control persists
Like water in a graceful waterfall!
If letting go means giving her control
I’d let her tie my arms, my legs, my soul!

I love her noble strength; I hate her pain
She doesn’t need the pain to prove her strength
There’s strength in beauty; strength you can’t profane
With pain of any width or any length
Nobility in Audrey’s royal pose
Is far more precious than some king or queen
I think it’s grand, the things that Audrey knows
More regal grace, I swear I’ve never seen!
Her strength is more than muscles; those she’s got
But fortitude is deep inside her heart
And yes, she is attractive; hell, she’s hot!
Her mind is strong as well; she’s fucking smart!
She overcomes all pain with strength I love
Compassion is the strength I’m thinking of.

I love to taste you when our lips unite
I never knew such sweetness could exist
Abundant savor fills my appetite
You’re nourishment that I cannot resist!
Like seasoning, your vigor is my spice
Like honey, come and drip upon my tongue
Forever, I’ll succumb as you entice
And in my heart, you’ll be forever young
I want to give you pleasure like I feel
I hope you want to feel as much of me
I love it when you wanted me to kneel
And taste you in a state of ecstasy!
To me, you taste like nothing else I know
A sweetness I have named Dessert Nouveau!

I know you went through hell, but you forgot
To bring a little sulphur back with you
Although it’s true that sulphur can be bought
And yes, I’m sure you know just what to do!
This life transition may seem rather cold
So warm it up by burning sheets of shit!
Don’t let ’em sit and gather ugly mold
Your life was hell, now make a blaze of it!
It’s only paper filled with words you hate
So let your hate burn bright, then turn to ash
The path is good when travelled with your gait
I don’t see any reason you should dash!
Just walk on straight.  Don’t stop.  Don’t cry.  Don’t turn.
You’re beautiful and strong.  Just let it burn!

I fantasize, just standing by my door
And waiting for the warmth she’ll bring inside
My heart is sure it’s never wanted more
I’m glad she makes it easy to decide
She’s not a fantasy; she’s more than real
I’ll wait as long as choice is mine to make
I love the way such waiting makes me feel
And how her warmth gets warmer for my sake
She wishes she was curled up with me now
Her comfort is the only warmth I need
I plan to give her comfort; I know how
Her every wish, I know I can exceed
My fantasy requires nothing more
Than waiting for her warmth, inside my door.

What is the muse?

Since I am a poet, I will address this question from the poet’s perspective. I do not know how or if this perspective translates to other creative mediums, or even, more specifically, other language-based mediums.

The “job” of the poet is to create expressions of ideas through the use of words and groups of words. At their most basic, words have three distinct elements which the poet may utilize: the sound of the word, the meaning of the word, and the place of the word within the poem.

In composing a poem, the poet creates relationship paths between these three elements. Some of these relationship paths are so common that we give them names. Rhyme, consonance, assonance, and alliteration are words we use to describe specific sound-based relationship paths between words. Metaphor, simile and imagery are examples of meaning-based relationship paths between words and word groups. Meter and stanza denote place-based relationship paths in a poem. If a relationship path exists internally to a word between its sound and meaning, we call that onomatopoeia.

The number of relationship paths that exist between two single words is 3^2 or 9. For a single line of iambic pentameter, the greatest number of relationship paths that could be defined is 3^10 or 59,049, and that assumes that we are using the same 10 single-syllable words. I am not trying to reduce poetry to a mathematical formula; I am trying to demonstrate the physical complexity of poetry. Although I’m sure that the total number of relationship paths for all the words and combination of words and word groups could be derived, it would be an astronomically large number. I’m also certain that the total number of relationship paths in the current body of extant poetry is miniscule compared to the universe of potential paths.

The obvious reason as to why the total amount of extant poetry is small compared to the universe of potential paths is that not all potential paths produce poetry. The question then becomes: Which relationship paths produce poetry? Or, in short: What is a poem?

A poet (Carolyn Forche) was once asked the question, “How do you know when you’ve written a poem?” The answer was: “When an editor buys it, then I’ve written a poem.” Teachers and students struggle with defining poetry every day. Most poetic attempts in the classroom result in mimicry that only satisfies the mechanical definition of what a poem is. As I’ve struggled to answer the question of what a poem is, I have settled on an analogy to an idea gleaned from my study of philosophy. In the field of ethics, actions may be either right or wrong. I believe that, analogously, in the field of poetics, a poem may be either poetic-right or poetic-wrong.

So what makes a poem poetic-right or poetic-wrong? If the relationship paths in a poem are all poetic-right, the poem is poetic right. If any of the relationship paths in a poem are poetic-wrong, then the poem is poetic-wrong, or at least not poetic right, and therefore not a poem.

This is why every word matters in a poem. The sound of each word in a poem matters. The meaning of each word in a poem matters. The placement of each word in a poem matters. Arbitrariness has no place in poetry. (Unless arbitrariness itself is specifically being employed as a poetic device.)

At this point I have deconstructed the concept of poetic-right down to the basic level of poetic relationship paths. But, we still do not have any idea of what makes a poem poetic-right or poetic-wrong. This is where the muse comes in.

Although I do not fully understand the workings of the muse, it helps me to relate it back to my ethics analogy. In ethics we speak of a “moral imperative,” a principle which compels the individual to act rightly or wrongly.

Here is the definition of the moral imperative from Wikipedia:

A moral imperative is a principle originating inside a person’s mind that compels them to act. … Later thinkers took the imperative to originate in conscience, as the divine voice speaking through the human spirit. The dictates of conscience are simply right and often resist further justification. Looked at another way, the experience of conscience is the basic experience of encountering the right.

Translated analogously into what I would call the poetic imperative, it would read as follows:

The poetic imperative is a principle originating inside a poet that compels them to compose poetry. The poetic imperative may originate in the poetic conscience, as the divine voice speaking through the human spirit. The dictates of the poetic conscience are simply poetic-right and often resist further justification. Looked at another way, the experience of poetic conscience is the basic experience of encountering the poetic-right.

Remember, I am not asserting that a poem is right or wrong from a moral point of view (I actually believe that poetry is amoral), but, analogously a poem may be poetic-right or poetic wrong depending on the poet’s application or dis-application of the poetic imperative, i.e., the muse.

The poetic imperative is the muse.

Philosophers debate whether the moral imperative originates within the individual or outside the individual. Humanists and atheists would argue the latter, theists and spiritualists the former. I believe the same arguments can be engaged in by those ready to debate the origins of the muse, the poetic imperative. I am not presently as concerned with the origins of the muse as I am with my interactions with it. To quote William Blake: “I will not reason and compare, my business is to create.” Whether the muse comes from within or without, if I do not follow it my poetry is poetic-wrong.

How is that possible? How can a poem be poetic-right or poetic-wrong?

If the poet composes the poem as directed by the muse, the poetic imperative, it is poetic right. The audience, in order to experience the poetic-rightness of the poem, must either trust the poet or seek their own confirmation of the poetic-rightness of the poem directly from the muse.

If the poet composes the poem in any way other than that directed by the muse, it is poetic-wrong.

So how does the poet know if he or she is following the poetic imperative, or listening to the muse? Back to the analogy—How does an individual know when he or she is making a decision that is morally correct? I remember one of my favorite lines from the movie K-Pax: “Every being in the universe knows right from wrong.” Every poet knows poetic-right from poetic wrong. If a decision, morally or poetically, needs clarification, justification, or equivocation, it is probably wrong.

Louisa’s Cafe & Bakery is quaint
Like something from a different, better time
I’d like to say it’s common, but it ain’t
Louisa’s isn’t common; it’s sublime
Her menu wanted us to order these:

• The Biscuit Basket; more than just a roll
• Macaroni and Cheese and Cheese and Cheese
• Blackberry Cobbler, sin within a bowl

Our waitress brought our food, then served us more
She snapped a photographic souvenir
We didn’t have to beg her or implore
It felt as if Louisa’s soul was near
I’d recommend Louisa’s to a friend
Seattle needs Louisa’s ’til the end!