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Sonnet Competition
As every year, there has been an annual sonnet competition hosted by Professor Newell, one of the best professors for English Literature I have ever seen.
To be able to say that I tried, I submitted two sonnets. I never knew it was so much fun to write sonnets! The great thing is, I spent hours on the idea and realisation of one of those, and round about ten minutes on the other, which is kind of written for Crocky, because I wanted to write something to make her smile.
The first one turned out to be awkward and something was wrong with the rhythm, the metre would not do what I wanted it to, and somehow it doesn't… work. I showed it to Crocky and she agreed about the rhythm.
They have both been through a process of editing and re-editing, and here they are. They not the prize sonnet, which, should it get mailed around, I will definitely post because it is really amazing, but here they are, anyway.
LINES COMPOSED UPON GLASGOW BRIDGE 14 MINUTES BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF CORONATION STREET ONE AFTERNOON IN EARLY SPRING
Earth has not anything to show more fair -
Thy tins, majestic, swaying side by side,
Thy stately bridges lonely junkie's lair,
The motor oil thy winking rainbow - Clyde.
Bright shiny schools of crisp bags sailing past,
What other boundless bounties thou mayst hide,
Full fathom five the trolleys rest at last
How you are treasuring those wonders, Clyde.
The nights blue lights but fall on murky stains,
The dance of swaying steps not ceilidh, drink;
Male, beerish voice bemoaning football pains,
Tossed bottles slowly arch - and to oblivion sink.
What soft Aeolus’ breath enfoldeth thee!
What mighty kidney's proud activity!
SUBURBIA
Rack upon rack of houses, all the same,
With smoky teeth, gnawing at the sky.
All equal, grain of sand to other grain,
All greatness, singularity deny.
In dull, syrupy Sunday afternoons
The smell of summer lilac in the air,
The tinned sound of old piano tunes -
Homo domesticus, this is your lair.
Small fences guard the small suburban world
The private kept and cherished, simple mirth
Within the walls in normal lives unfurled:
Small worlds within small worlds, a universe.
No greatness here, no palace, opera, dome,
Many alike, but only one called home.
I know, nothing special, but certainly the best I could do within two days.
They are special to me, because these are, I seem to remember, the first sonnets I've ever written. (Is that the first dangerous sign of embracing the own mediocrity?) I do believe I could have fixed the first one, if I had had more time.
Moral: she who puts off stuff until the last minute is in danger of writing mediocre poetry!
And although they are not first prize sonnets, Composed upon Glasgow Bridge was under the runners up and was mentioned as the seventh mentionable poem which was considered. I was pretty proud about that, I absolutely wouldn't have expected it.
Professor Newell even awarded me a prize for it. I think I'll go and take picture of it. He is sooo sweet. Behold, my prize:
About the second poem, he told me later, that it was very interesting, but that there was something wrong with the rhythm, wherefore it did not work "as good as your Lines Composed with apologies to Wordsworth". I love the man.
To be able to say that I tried, I submitted two sonnets. I never knew it was so much fun to write sonnets! The great thing is, I spent hours on the idea and realisation of one of those, and round about ten minutes on the other, which is kind of written for Crocky, because I wanted to write something to make her smile.
The first one turned out to be awkward and something was wrong with the rhythm, the metre would not do what I wanted it to, and somehow it doesn't… work. I showed it to Crocky and she agreed about the rhythm.
They have both been through a process of editing and re-editing, and here they are. They not the prize sonnet, which, should it get mailed around, I will definitely post because it is really amazing, but here they are, anyway.
LINES COMPOSED UPON GLASGOW BRIDGE 14 MINUTES BEFORE THE BEGINNING OF CORONATION STREET ONE AFTERNOON IN EARLY SPRING
Earth has not anything to show more fair -
Thy tins, majestic, swaying side by side,
Thy stately bridges lonely junkie's lair,
The motor oil thy winking rainbow - Clyde.
Bright shiny schools of crisp bags sailing past,
What other boundless bounties thou mayst hide,
Full fathom five the trolleys rest at last
How you are treasuring those wonders, Clyde.
The nights blue lights but fall on murky stains,
The dance of swaying steps not ceilidh, drink;
Male, beerish voice bemoaning football pains,
Tossed bottles slowly arch - and to oblivion sink.
What soft Aeolus’ breath enfoldeth thee!
What mighty kidney's proud activity!
SUBURBIA
Rack upon rack of houses, all the same,
With smoky teeth, gnawing at the sky.
All equal, grain of sand to other grain,
All greatness, singularity deny.
In dull, syrupy Sunday afternoons
The smell of summer lilac in the air,
The tinned sound of old piano tunes -
Homo domesticus, this is your lair.
Small fences guard the small suburban world
The private kept and cherished, simple mirth
Within the walls in normal lives unfurled:
Small worlds within small worlds, a universe.
No greatness here, no palace, opera, dome,
Many alike, but only one called home.
I know, nothing special, but certainly the best I could do within two days.
They are special to me, because these are, I seem to remember, the first sonnets I've ever written. (Is that the first dangerous sign of embracing the own mediocrity?) I do believe I could have fixed the first one, if I had had more time.
Moral: she who puts off stuff until the last minute is in danger of writing mediocre poetry!
And although they are not first prize sonnets, Composed upon Glasgow Bridge was under the runners up and was mentioned as the seventh mentionable poem which was considered. I was pretty proud about that, I absolutely wouldn't have expected it.
Professor Newell even awarded me a prize for it. I think I'll go and take picture of it. He is sooo sweet. Behold, my prize:
About the second poem, he told me later, that it was very interesting, but that there was something wrong with the rhythm, wherefore it did not work "as good as your Lines Composed with apologies to Wordsworth". I love the man.