For Betty Thompson on her 90th Birthday
You speak of them, your frieze of fallen men,
Your father, brothers, lovers, husbands, son
As though they were alive and well again.
When guests arrive and lighter talk’s begun,
You smile, connecting every face and name.
Uncertain where to put your fragile hands,
You barely blow away each candle flame.
Your daughters whisper manifold commands.
The birthday gifts are opened, put away.
Their children, bored now, scuffle on the floor.
Old matriarch, the guests all gone away,
The house grown still, you speak of them once more,
Your father, brothers, lovers, husbands, son,
The strength it took to bury every one.
Comment by Mr. Gwynn:
This strikes me as entirely competent, both as a sonnet and as an occasional poem. I especially like “frieze of fallen men” but do have some problems with other bits of diction: “fragile hands” and “manifold commands” especially. I wonder also about “barely blow away each candle’ flame” since the flame could be made to move or blown out but not blown away. But I do have another problem, a rather serious one. If the honoree is 90, then her daughters would probably be in their 50s at best. For them to have “children [who can] scuffle on the floor” doesn’t seem likely. I’d more expect great-grandchildren, given the lady’s advanced age. And “Old matriarch” seems a little redundant, given the epigraph and the poem’s description of an aged woman.
Sonnet #1
Threaded Mode
