The Sonnets and Other Poems (Modern Library Classics)

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Their placements right at the end of the octave and sestet cf. Can anybody stand In the blown-apart heart of the Holy Land, Can anybody see with shattered eye All that is done? Can anyone think why, Marshal a shredded brain to understand? Can anybody grasp a severed hand, Can a cut-out tongue still stammer of Sinai?

In the title, the author begins by mingling her own name and times with that of the young Jewess, who during the reign of the Persian King Ahasuerus, interceded to have him rescind an order that condemned all Jews be put to death.

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Those times certainly do seem similar to ours, as we are living through the century after the Nazi Holocaust and the ongoing and undiminished, irrational hatred of the Jews. In such a climate, how can anybody, like Moses, come down from the Mountain and bring the Law of the Lord? Is it any wonder, then, that Ms. The Joseph mentioned in the first New Millennial sonnet mentioned is that of Joseph Salemi, conflated, of course, with the Biblical Joseph. In the following sonnet, Mr. Salemi, editor and producer of the poetic journal Trinacria , evinces that rich, metrical diction of which he is a strong proponent.

Next flower petals, multicolored, bold In stark chromatic contrasts—dry and bray Them in a mortar till you cannot say Which shade is which. Then choose a jar to hold This mix of leaf and petal. Stir it well. Seal up the jar and simply let it age— The alchemy of death will work unseen. Edward the Confessor. The light of faith is gone.

From stolen thrones the foes of Christ wage wars Against thy sons, and not one sword is drawn. Thy Westminster, by pagan rites profaned, Where thy pure corpse awaits the Day of Days, No more receives thy monks, but slaves enchained By petty masters and their taxing ways.


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Reminiscent of Shelley, especially the second stanza, and Arnold in its melancholy, what is remarkable is its clarity and sublime diction. Interestingly she breaks the final couplet, and the final four-word sentence carries the thematic punch. Its warp and woof embroidered without thought It seems: the flawless linen now infused With spots of wreckage—perfect weave abused. Then see the Eye that watches me, amused— Whose Hand now turns the fabric tight-side-up. I, thunderstruck, perceive a pristine shawl, True motif, dyed perfection, glossy shine That stirs me as I contemplate close-up The faultless weft, undamaged after all.

Eternity alone discerns design. She leads him to the fiction, where they part for different shelves. They meet me at the desk with separate piles. Unthinkingly, I mix the books together. I sense his wave of nervousness. She smiles and quickly sorts the titles out. He slides his pile away, averts his eyes, and waits for her to pull out bags.

She grabs his arm and leads him, tote bag full of cowboy stories swinging at his heel, his sidearm holstered by her whim of steel. The trees Have gone to red and flame. A field beyond Is spread with grass and granite rocks at ease.

This stonewall pattern thinks it holds a pond. The farmhouse windows have their fire Inside as well.

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Twilight is more it seems, And maple facts can mesmerize desire. A white wood house defines the slope of hill Where people keep another autumn, still. The sunshine that besieged us with its heat Now leans against the south walls, cold and tired. There is no empire time will not defeat; Each Golden Age that flared has soon expired. Byzantium lies silent under steel, Persepolis has crumbled back to dust. Despite the wistful longing we might feel, All times of summer fade, as fade they must. Embrace what time remains; it will not last.

Your autumn, too, will soon be ancient past. Juster, a modern sonneteer. Though many of the sonnet winners there use a looser iambic pentameter line than the previous aforementioned sonneteers, they are easily accessed, and worthy of a perusal for those looking at the present state of the sonnet. A ninth sonnet comes from one of those winners, Marion Shore:. Back in those days a never-ending feature of my life was that I seemed to be in love—most often, unrequitedly— when you became my mentor, soulmate, preacher. And that is when I have the inspiration to translate you.