Remembering Thost
My name is Jamie Lee Hamann and I started sharing poetry articles back in 2013. Every year I share a poem a day in April.
1.)
To write these sonnets so they can exist
sonnets for the sake of writing sonnet
how many ways can you speak so honest
to read your epic in the morning mist.
A precision required for each word
a puzzle spread upon your open space
where fourteen lines are always in their place
in order lies the subtle to explore.
A break from telling the same old stories
of heroes, battles, monster to slay
to center on the heart of the matter.
Rise above our timely allegories
to find a piece of us where we can stay
to love ourselves though life's noisy chatter.
When researching the man behind the thost
a solitary man who writes sonnets
to look inside and find valued profits
in walking shorelines off the Irish coast.
To stare upon the vast shoreline of Cork,
to sit upon the green of Limerick
the wind carries an Irish rhetoric
such inspiration puts his pen to work.
To sit in chairs in pubs where old Yeats sat
then walk out to the cliff to watch the waves
who crash upon eroded Blarney Stone.
To describe view as if an acrobat
your bounteous love will transport these graves
of stone where time has found you all alone.
2.)
Within this strophic organization
within external and internal rhyme
on drums who beat within iambic time
where quatrains build a secure foundation.
To rely on the turn of the sestet
to solve the problem located in lines
to treat each line as delicate sweet wines
to try and judge a readers appestat.
When sudden changes of imagery
whose cliffs bring views of vastness to our eyes
to when we stand alone in city crowds
the difference between country and city
and share the secret of a good surprise
or when we find delight within the clouds.
The bravery it takes to share our lives
through sonnets lying stacked upon mantle
these words are more then just senseless ramble
though nobody stands before your archives.
To write these sonnets so they can exist
sonnets for the sake of writing sonnets
how many ways can you speak so honest
to read your epic in the morning mist.
To sit on chairs in pubs where old Yeats sat
then walk out to the cliffs to watch the waves
who crash upon eroded Blarney Stone.
To describe view as if an acrobat
your bounteous love leaps onto these graves
of stone where time has found you all alone.
© 2019 Jamie Lee Hamann
