I write sonnets to hold myself together.

Tag: art


Context: Last year at Camp Grounded I met a person named Practice, who shared something like the following.

“Consider this,” he said, “a simple line
can be interpreted so many ways.
I thicken here, you take it as a sign
that object’s in the foreground, ‘fore the haze.
I pinch it here, again sequentially
and pattern you interpret, but it’s just
your mind completing its potential–see
but one unbroken line! The rest is trust.
And so in curves and breaks and strokes we weave
the textures you interpret as set things,
allowing us to alter what’s perceived,
in equal measure for both pawns and kings.
The line, you see, is base that’s oft ignored
when said that pen is mightier than sword.”

A dozen births in darkened rooms

Context – …


The still room’s black is nearly viscous, lamp
on drafting desk the only glow suffused.
Once sun escaped, identity decamped
from man, now boy, cartoons and hues enthused
his pens and quills and palettes. Sluice gates rose,
let flow the ink from air to mind to hand,
the paper’s figures, spirits juxtaposed
impossibilities in meadowlands.
He drew because he drew because he drew,
no verbs were left untested that could meet
the flow he’d know when solitude anew
of evenings let his muse-fed thoughts secrete.
Night freed him from days’ shackles of the flesh,
obsessiveness there mother of the fresh.

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