a good dream for a cold winter’s night – a villanelle

adrift in a good dream, in silent white 

far from the madding din in spellbound snow

in gusts, on this light-as-a-feather night

floating ... in the mystic spirit bright

the moon and stars confer a lantern glow

adrift in a good dream, in silent white

in wintry solitude – the world is right

before me, soft down quilt warms my old soul,

in gusts, on this light-as-a-feather night

  

each frosted bough and branch: an awesome sight 

in misty breath and breezes – wonderful –

adrift in a good dream, in silent white

glittered snowflakes skitter with delight

and swirl, exquisite, in the puff and blow 

in gusts, on this light-as-a-feather night

peace on earth – on this good earth – this night 

a dream, a wish, a prayer to  make it so ...

adrift in a good dream, in silent white 

in gusts, on this light-as-a-feather night

 notes:  posted for Poets United.

On a personal note:  Recently, I was included in EnCompass V, an anthology published by The Ontario Poetry Society [www.theontariopoetrysociety.ca], that featured the work of six, established and emerging, poets.  What an honor, for me, to be included with such talented people.

TOPS (abbrev.) is a unique, “poetry-friendly place” and personally, I have found it to be a wonderful way (for those who are interested) to kick-start a publication record as, many of their submissions (for poetry contests and anthologies, etc) are only open to members (in Canada and the US).

photo:  Sun Peaks, BC – H. Bourke

© 2016 Wendy Bourke

How to Mess with Perfection - A Sonnet

The prompt at Poetry Jam this week is “How to”.  I had been working on a sonnet parody of William Shakespeare’s My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Love Sonnet 130) for quite some time and seized on the prompt as an incentive to finish the piece off – my “take” on the prompt being:  How to Mess with Perfection.

Love Sonnet 130 features prominently on virtually any list of top Sonnets, Romantic Verses and Humorous Poems (often placing first) and, although Shakespeare published 154 sonnets, Sonnet 130 is one of a very few that have entered deeply into the consciousness of our culture.   For many, William Shakespeare, is the greatest writer the English language has ever known.  But, never let it be said:  I don’t enjoy a challenge.  If Shakespeare could turn the less than enchanting characteristics of his mistress into a love poem, could a woman (centuries later) take a, seemingly, unendearing quality in a man (such as snoring) and do likewise.  (The idea:  that one can grow to miss snoring – when it stops – came to me from a woman who had recently lost her husband, a snorer, of many years.)

And so, without further ado (the etymology, of which, I gather, comes to us via Mr. Shakespeare’s Play “Much Ado About Nothing”) I give you:

My lover sleeps as placid as a cloud 

My lover sleeps as placid as a cloud 

That floats white, round steam engine locomotion. 

To say, his snore cacophony is loud 

Would underplay the scale of the commotion. 

A buzz saw, by comparison, sounds swell 

And kinder, I’ve no doubt, on jagged nerve 

Than the “snuffle-snort-wheeze-splutter-whistle” hell 

A bug upon the earth does not deserve. 

But, sure as stars in heaven, it would seem 

The nightly song, is fated to persist; 

And blast the sound effects on every dream 

So that I wonder if it might be missed.  
     He breaths, he lives and so I let him be
     For he is all the joy on earth, to me.

 note:  (by way of refresher) 

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun (Sonnet 130)

My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound; 
I grant I never saw a goddess go; 
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
     And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
     As any she belied with false compare.

  

photo:  Steam Engine Coming Through - W. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke

Too late wise and too soon dead - A Triolet

(A triolet in iambic tetrameter)

The drizzle rainfall wept forlorn: 

Upon the hour of his death 

As if the whole world stopped to mourn 

The drizzle rainfall wept forlorn 

Brokenhearted, lost, careworn 

In aching stabs of jagged breath 

The drizzle rainfall wept forlorn 

Upon the hour of his death.

The journey short, though it seemed long:

Too late wise, and too soon dead

The way, not clearly right – nor wrong

The journey short, though it seemed long

The passion, neither weak – nor strong

The loving words, that went unsaid 

The journey short, though it seemed long

Too late wise, and too soon dead.

The drizzle rainfall wept forlorn:

Too late wise, and too soon dead 

The bond perceived, as it was torn

The drizzle rainfall wept forlorn

The loss, more than a heart could mourn

Regret:  more than her tears could shed

The drizzle rainfall wept forlorn . . .
Upon the hour of his death.

notes:  the title for this triolet in three stanzas, is from an expression a German professor I knew, would often utter (to humorous effect):  zu spät klug - zu früh tot, which I gather means: too late smart – too soon dead. Often those words have come back to me.   So very true, about so many things in life.

After considerable thought, I have decided to take a bit of poetic license in the last line of the third stanza.  It, of course should be:  Too late wise, and too soon dead.  And yet: Upon the hour of his death, kept calling to me and I simply, like it better this way.  Smiles.

photo:  Too soon dead - W. Bourke

© 2014 Wendy Bourke