“Award-Winning” Poem 2

Author’s note: it’s been a very long time since you’ve last heard from the author. The author (Arthur) is feeling the itch again, and is catching up on that by sharing some treasured poetry from the past little while.

The poem below helped me win the “Grand Prize” in a 2020 poetry contest. 2020 is not even close to over, even though it feels like it’s already been about four years. Regardless, the seasons have changed, and this poem tries to capture that. It is a Shakespearean sonnet as a dialog between a winter spirit and a spring spirit whose relationship is coming to an unfortunate end. This poem, more so than my previous “award-winning” poem, I believe was justified in achieving “Grand Prize”.

It started as raw material capturing the romantic angst and yearning present on earlier entries of this blog. That was potent crude oil. In fact, I read those posts and old journal entries for inspiration and motivation for one of the sonnet’s character’s. Dozens of drafts and revisions, and several peer reviews, are to thank for its final, refined form.


Anyway, here it is.

VAIL (a spirit of winter)
A glacier crawls more quickly than the dark,
When all my waking thoughts surround your flame
I’d break my cracking chest and sighing heart
To know just one more day could stay the same

VERNA (a spirit of spring)
A new day dawns, I must now flee to grow,
To fly like wind, unbounded, free, and true,
To taste the dew, see all there is to sow
By letting go, the sky turns gray to blue

Let go? I feel I’m frozen in the past

Be gentle with yourself, the present’s there

I cry to see no way our future lasts
But want for you to fly in warmer air

I see your heart as hearth, and mine the sun
This is to say, goodbye, my wintry one

A Sonnet about Writing Poems

I wrote a Petrarchan Sonnet in Iambic pentameter as part of an application for volunteer work at a writing center. It is below. I am now a volunteer there.

They say it’s difficult to write a rhyme/
That meter’s ticking like a metronome/
And one’s organic voice is now a drone/
How can a writer feel in marking time?/
In freeform I respect a blob of nouns/
But I don’t know which ones I should display/
I might just throw a dart at what to say/
But no, it lands on one I can’t pronounce/
I know! I’ll pick up my guitar and sing!/
Then words will have to come out to the beats/
And I’ll pretend I had them all along/
Well, shoot, guitar’s one thing I didn’t bring/
But in my heart there’s one line that repeats:/
“Write from myself, and then those words belong.”

Wreturning to Writing,