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Friday, July 14, 2017

Direct Rule of the Earl of Surrey's sonnets!

I am going to post these poems as I write them, because of the topicality of their subjects. I shall also only leave them up temporarily, during the composition process. I'm thinking of posting no more than 4 at any one time on the blog. And eventually they will all disappear. See here to check for poems from other days. Scroll back and find the other three... Also note the beginning of this sonnet exploration, Petrarch 3, is still for sale and is the featured post to the right of this column.



Direct Rule: Windsor

Like a man filming his wife taking a selfie
of her silvered face in Windsor Park, this poem
is a record of its own discovering. Lusty? Very!
‘This is such a pleasant spot to stain with pleasure,

the picnic tables, the rustic spread, the chorus
of wasps round the bin,’ the Rake from Hell remarks,
pulling his vest back on but feeling well pissed off,  
sporting in my simile where he shelters like a spent penny,



Wrote the octet first, which is unusual. Onwards:




Direct Rule: Windsor

Like a man filming his wife taking a selfie
of her silvered face in Windsor Park, this poem
is a record of its own discovering. Lusty? Very!
‘This is such a pleasant spot to stain with pleasure,
Image result for picnic table
the picnic tables, the rustic spread, the chorus
of wasps around the bin,’ the Rake from Hell remarks,
pulling his vest back on but feeling well pissed off, 
sporting in my simile where he shelters like a spent penny.

Do I have a duty of care, as when I share unwillingly
the smelly minibus with our student interns? No:
he can sigh smoke in my face and bugger off out of my sight.

It’s his smoke, really, not actual tears, that causes my lacrymation.
Talking about suicide
doesn’t make students kill themselves, so I’ll write about it instead.


A grim turn out of nowhere? Dictated by Surrey's Windsor sonnet. 




Direct Rule: Windsor

Like a man filming his wife taking a selfie
of her silvered face in Windsor Park, this poem
is a record of its own discovering. Lusty? Very!
‘This is such a pleasant spot to stain with pleasure,

the picnic tables, the rustic spread, the chorus of wasps
around the bin,’ the Rake from Hell remarks, pulling
his vest back on but feeling well pissed off, though
sporting in my simile where he shelters like a spent penny.

Do I have a duty of care, as when I share the smelly
minibus with our student interns? No: he can sigh smoke
in my face and bugger off out of my sight with his cleaned up wife.

It’s just his smoke that causes my lachrymatory response.
A voice trapped in a poem can only cry in words. They say
talking about suicide doesn’t make students kill themselves. It does.

July 14th 2107



Direct Rule: Windsor

Like a man filming his wife taking a selfie
of her silvered face in Windsor Park, this poem
is a record of its own discovering. Lusty? Very!
‘This is such a pleasant spot to stain with pleasure:

the picnic tables, the rustic spread, the chorus of wasps
around the bin,’ the Rake from Hell remarks, pulling
his vest back on but feeling well pissed off, though
sporting in my simile. He shelters like a spent penny.
Image result for picnic table and women
Do I have a duty of care for him, as when I share the smelly
minibus with our student interns? No: he can sigh smoke
in my face and bugger off with his self-regarding wife.

It’s just his smoke that causes my lachrymatory response:
a voice trapped in a poem can only cry in words. They say
talking about suicide doesn’t make students kill themselves. It does.

July 14th 2107

 Got to keep an eye on the time this morning; I'm meeting Tim Allen at 12.30. But I'll keep updating this...



It’s just his smoke that causes my lachrymatory response:
a voice trapped in a poem can only cry in words. They say
talking about suicide doesn’t make students top themselves. (‘It does.’)

Maybe?

Yes, I think so? This one has really twisted out of shape. But I'd intended these poems from part two of my Surrey engagement (called 'Direct Rule'; sorry Clark I DO like that!) to be different. They are occasional and not translations from Petrarch. I used to talk all sorts of twaddle about Renaissance poets being impersonal. Wyatt and Surrey aren't. They are circumspect. The postie lady has just delivered a package. I think it's Culler's THE LYRIC. I wonder what he's got to say on this matter. Maybe open it, and take it with me to meet Tim.

I'm enjoying putting these poems up; I enjoy taking them down. (Like trousers at a dogging? Where did that metaphor come from? One of the Wyatt poems, and then it became a running theme.)

Signing off: it's 11.42...

Saturday morning: a few revisions and a tidying up, done on the hoof out in Liverpool...


Direct Rule: Windsor Walls

Like a man filming his wife taking a selfie
of her silvered face in sylvan Windsor Park, this poem
is a record of its own discovering. Lusty? Very!
‘This is such a pleasant spot to stain with pleasure:

the picnic tables, the rustic spread, the chorus of wasps
around the bin,’ the Rake from Hell remarks, pulling
his vest back on but feeling well pissed off, though
sporting in my similes. He shelters like a spent penny.

Do I have a duty of care for him, as when I share the smelly
minibus with our student interns? No: he can sigh smoke
in my face and bugger off with his self-regarding floozy.

It’s just his smoke that causes this lachrymatory response:
my voice trapped in a poem can only cry in words. They say
talking about suicide doesn’t make students top themselves. It does.

July 14th 2107