Sonnet I

~To earth’s asleep,

May this song rouse afar!

If birth wakes sound in the newborn’s ear itself,

If shouts shake down fall’s leaves, poets the stars,

Then my call shall call Pegasus from the shelf

Of her firmament; that is my interest,

My color conscience, garden’d growth, and bud

Sown to a browed furrow, the seed’s address.

Can you hear this black vine? It’s trained by blood.

If this word is fallen on rock, to choke,

Straggle, or swone, then let tide what betide,

As a dead branch awaits the lightning’s bolt,

(No matter to wait…)

I’ll hold this word high and boldly abide!

No matter to Time ticking with weary arm

Its harm, so this of me will make through mar.

Thank you all for reading my poem.

Poetry is symbolic action in which the poet transforms their consciousness through the art of language. This transformation varies from the minorities of elevation (pastoral) to the sea-changes of great art (epic-dramatic). However this process proceeds, this process must not exist in isolation. Poetry, as language, must not only be spoken, but spoken to  someone.

It is then after much hesitation that I am launching this newsletter to share my poetry with an audience of listeners. Whatever the reception of my work, it is essential that is something that may be heard, rather than merely thought and left.

I will be posting twice every month, on the first and last Sunday of that month. What will be published will be a sonnet, a work of blank verse, or a selection from my books of dramatic verse. One will be free to read, the other will humbly beg for its poet’s bread.

Thank you very much for reading. Subscribe today to read more.