[robert mezey]

Tim, yes, it has appeared under that title, but
in the New & Selected, it is part IV of a marvelous
sequence called "American Scenes (1904-1905)" based
on James' great travel book.
Lots of lovely sonnets goin' on here, but here's
another fine one by DJ. (It suddenly occurs to me
that I may have already posted this one some time
back on one thread or another, but in my present
senility, how would I know?) The astonishing thing
about this sonnet is that Justice wrote it as a
graduate student in one of Berryman's workshop, circa
1953, when he was still in his 20s. Even if I did post
it before, it bears repetition.

The Wall

The wall surrounding them they never saw;
The angels, often. Angels were as common
As birds or butterflies, but looked more human.
As long as the wings were furled, they felt no awe.
Beasts, too, were friendly. They could find no flaw
In all of Eden: this was the first omen.
The second was the dream which woke the woman.
She dreamed she saw the lion sharpen his claw.
As for the fruit, it had no taste at all.
They had been warned of what was bound to happen.
They had been told of something called the world.
They had been told and told about the wall.
They saw it now; the gate was standing open.
As they advanced, the giant wings unfurled.

Wow. Among the many masterly strokes by that kid
are the last eight lines, all end-stopped, one sentence
per line; the repetition of toldin line 12, the
terrific close slant rhymes; the beautifully natural
offhand inversion in the first line--- Well, enough.
More than enough.

[A. E. Stallings]

Caleb, you are very sweet to post my sonnet. Rather humbling to be in such company.

The Justice sonnets are just lovely.

These are not sonnets--but sort of sonnet-length. Turner Cassity seems to me another unduly ignored formalist (not young enough to be hiply neo-). He has a sharp wit and satirical bent, and his poems can be difficult, condensed, prickly, but always executed with grace. He is also one of the very few poets I know who work with a hexameter line. Here are two short ones I like very much, from _The Destructive Element_, Ohio University Press (which I highly recommend).

Walking on Water

There is no secret to it. Test the surface tension
First; place the foot. If currents run in opposition
Change direction. Where you end is not the point.

As in most miracles the eye of the beholder
Counts. Fishermen, who wade perforce in their profession,
Know mere wading, vintners watered wine. To feed

Five thousand does not much impress a caterer.
Raise up a dead embalmer if you wish to awe--
Those few who care to have him back. And bear in mind

Translation too is miracle. A walking by
Is not a walking on, and God is everywhere,
Not least, perhaps, in prepositions and their objects


Carpenters

Forgiven, unforgiven, they who drive the nails
Know what they do: they hammer.
If they doubt, if their vocation fails,
They only swell the number,

Large already, of the mutineers and thieves.
With only chance and duty
There to cloak them, they elect and nail.
The vinegar will pity.

Judas who sops, their silver his accuser, errs
To blame the unrewarded.
They guard the branch he hangs from. Guilt occurs
Where it can be afforded.


(sorry I couldn't get the indentation working right...)

[Jan D. Hodge]

Wonderful collection of modern sonnets (and other forms). I'll add one I've always liked, an early Gwendolyn Brooks:

sonnet ballad

Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?
They took my lover's tallness off to war.
Left me lamenting. Now I cannot guess
What I can use an empty heart-cup for.
He won't be coming back here any more.
Some day the war will end, but oh, I knew
When he went walking grandly out that door
That my sweet love would have to be untrue.
Would have to be untrue. Would have to court
Coquettish death, whose impudent and strange
Possessive arms and beauty (of a sort)
Can make a hard man hesitate--and change.
And he will be the one to stammer, "Yes."
Oh mother, mother, where is happiness?


Jan


[This message has been edited by Jan D. Hodge (edited May 31, 2001).]

[Caleb Murdock]

That poem by Brooks has always been a favorite of mine, though I find it a little uneven. There is one thing about it, however, that I have never liked: the repetition of "would have to be untrue". The repetition was obviously meant to provide emphasis, but it has never worked for me.

The things that I like about all these poems are that they are clear and concrete and not full of narcissistic and self-indulgent musings, or endless flowery descriptions.

[Jan D. Hodge]

Originally posted by Caleb Murdock:
That poem by Brooks has always been a favorite of mine, though I find it a little uneven. There is one thing about it, however, that I have never liked: the repetition of "would have to be untrue". The repetition was obviously meant to provide emphasis, but it has never worked for me.

One of the things I like about the poem is its powerful fatalism (reinforced by the repetition), especially when you realize that "he" is still alive as she speaks, and the tone of resignation without bitterness or anger toward him.

Jan

[This message has been edited by Jan D. Hodge (edited June 02, 2001).]