Sonnets to Sing

    Happy Holidays or Whatever. It's time for more sonnets because I'm a bit obsessed. As usual, you will see some related to certain movies (e.g.: “Dead Poets Society”) or books (e.g.: “The Song of Achilles”) because they are just that great. As they say: “Good writers make you join their worlds; the best ones make you want to create your own”. Be prepared for lavender because I'm not particularly straight. Also, some have a Romanian version because they are fun to write anyway. Why not have sonnets in that language too? Anyway, I hope you enjoy. 

1. Eyes

Some people's eyes stop at clothes and tattoos

And refuse to see beyond such surface;

Still, I look past all these taboos

And thus find the mind's rich space.

I'm often looking in from the outside

Because that's how you observe the worst and best;

From the others' broken mirror, you see your own shards aside

And put the heart's golden thread to a test.

If I could hear thoughts, I'd surely bet

That I would meet each every judge

Who, to fix the world, is always set

And who knows nothing but to endlessly indulge.

I stand up high, naked, while looking down

And spitting on such a vain crown.

 

2.  Painting

Across the body, the mind winds its story

And the heart adds melody to all of it:

It sings of the times with high glory

As well as the ones when the serpents bit.

With ink and needles, I often draw on my skin

Those sparks and symbols only known by me;

Memories will fill that canvas in

As the masterpiece I slowly begin to see

And so I try to wear my heart on the sleeve,

Despite guarding it so bloody carefully;

Though it sometimes wants to leave,

The swift drum obeys the head fully.

Thus, I tell my story without a single word

And begin to fight without a single sword. 

3. Streak of Lavender

The lavender that brought such a scare

Is luckily regaining its acceptance;

To love, some simply wouldn't dare

For the light fears the shadow's resistance.

Poor Patroclus and his streak of lavender, 

He failed to defeat the all-mighty Hector;

Poor Achilles and his teardrops, so tender,

When facing gravestones, he would hear no lector.

Lavender, too, grows in the emperor's garden

Because he adores its scent and colour;

Ai of Han ought to always broaden

All the splendours of what he loves to savour.

My pen serves as my golden sceptre

Because, without it, I couldn't walk a metre.

4. Flight

The snow is traced with the ashes of many

Who touched the sky, yet were quick to hit the ground;

Still, I seem to be unlike any

For their yelling, to me, makes no sound.

I touched the sun, went blind and regained my sight

So that I can see beyond any face or reason;

Though nothing seems to hinder my flight,

Feathers of the wings have suffered the treason.

Some keep watching while spitting again on me,

Others listen, my plumage admiring;

Either way, they are free to come and see

The road built ahead of my arising.

Beyond tattoos and scars, some cannot see

The painting that lies inside of me.

5. Ode to the Cat

His blue eyes stared at the void of mine,

Probably wondering if it's loneliness;

Yet his tail coils around me like a grape vine,

Thus finding a cure to any sadness.

The cat assists me like any other poet

And is a god that few sing about;

His mystery helps me write my sonnet,

Even when I have thoughts I don't speak aloud.

The snow of his fur, the sapphires of his eyes

Always paint my morning's mood,

Even though he never runs after mice

And often sings to get his food.

The cat's freedom adorns my room

And rids me of any possible gloom.

 

6. Heart of the Art
Poetry heals all accidental or intentional cuts
And helps in taming each and every storm
That starts whenever the wires take the shots
That alter the mind's best form.
Pink scars on pale skin
Cry out for a trusted counsellor indeed;
Still, they are sewed in wires of tin
That allow no growth or little seed.
Only poetry stitches and stops the bleeding
Of the head and tongue during a hurricane;
And so the heart engages in a ballet of feeling
That transforms me into a singing crane.
Only poetry calms a raging storm
And heals bleeding, regardless of its form.  

7. Maglor

I look at the sea that shimmers in moonlight

As I curse the jewel that sank beneath a wave;

A snake became of this empty fight

That holds me still, though I will not see the grave.

I can see my brothers smiling through the stars:

Maedhros and hid fire, the twins forever in disharmony;

It is a pity the wheel left many scars

That cannot yet be rubbed with honey.

I am cursed and blessed to be left behind,

Despite my hand that still bleeds heavily;

In time, my burn a cure will find

But my head may not heal so steadily.

Why do I try too hard to even exist

When all I see around me is a dense mist?

 

8. A. Nine of Swords

 A corpse was brought before his bright eyes,

Truly unrecognisable at his first glance;

But he tore the armour and its lies

And almost felt his heart stopping its dance.

Achilles' eyes soon became bloodshot and numb,

As tears began to conquer his heart;

He could feel his chest's irritatingly quick drum,

As he wished not to see the next dawn's start.

His voice cracked and broke in his throat,

As “Patroclus” was the only word he'd say;

At last, Charon waited for him in that boat

To, perhaps, reunite with me one day.

What is worse than being left alive

When you have nothing to help you thrive?

B. Nouă de spade
Era un mort în fața luminii ochilor lui,
Unul ce nu recunoștea din prima;
Dar a smuls armura, minciunile oricui,
Și aproape nu își mai putea simți inima.
Ochii lui Ahile erau tot mai roșii în amorțire
Când tunica i se umplea de lacrimi;
Simțea a pieptului tobă și insistenta ei lovire
Nedorind să mai trăiască ale zorilor patimi.
Se aude a lui voce răgușită și spartă
Cum "Patrocle" era singurul cuvânt ce spune;
Apoi Charon în a nemuririi barca îl așteaptă
Pentru a scrie în piatră un al II-lea nume.
Ce poate fi mai rău decât să fii lăsat în viață
Când ești strâns legat de a neliniștii ață?

9. Ricardo Reis

It is not the gods that I often abhor

But those who argue on who's the best;

That who says the other is a whore

Forgets we live in the same nest.

Christ is no better than Apollo or an Emperor or Jade,

Although he's portrayed to be tediously flawless;

Yet nobody can master such a trade

And become, to the followers, simply lawless

I sit in-between, watching them spit and fight

While I carelessly drink my daily cup of tea;

This war of philosophy reaches an absurd height

Because it goes beyond each and every sea.

I've never cared for whom the gods send

Or who has the best imaginary friend.

 

10. Lyre

His fingers touched the chords with softness,

Casting his spell upon the one who's listening;

Patroclus marvelled, though with shyness,

And almost felt as if struck by lightning.

He knew Achilles' voice from a great distance:

A crystal so uneven, yet so incredibly clear;

A song, a smile, and it was his entire existence:

To seek, to speak to a soul so dear.

All by himself, Achilles plays the lyre again

With scars and tears all across his body;

His Philtatos was to his pride slain

And he is left to feel the warmth of nobody.

Achilles stares at the lyre's golden adornment

And weeps again, reminded of endless torment.

11. Days Off

Days off feel like a breath held for too long,

As if a war was dawning upon this land

But this region only knew it in song

And in the blood fallen on the border's sand.

There is numbness to it, more than I desire

Because I can't feel as strongly as in the past;

Despite how brightly burns all the fire,

I'm losing the hope that it will last.

My shoulders keep their tension anyway,

Regardless of the day or night, year or month;

It is a free day, in December or in May,

And I still wander as nothing but a moth.

It was a day off, and it felt so strange,

As if I was constantly kept in an open cage.

12. Numbness

There's numbness I cannot explain

Because it fills the emptiness inside of me;

It feels as if it's about to drain

A large body of water I fail to see.

A violent rain brings to waves all the sorrow

And causes them to rage against one ship;

It happens beyond the surface, always below, 

Until the ocean has sailor blood to sip.

It's all quiet now, though any feeling is dead,

Before the trident is used once again;

Drowning is where all this mess led

And I should find a way for it to explain.

I can't feel as strongly as I probably should

Because to let myself be consumed, I never could.

 

13. Lavender 

Lavender grows wherever it pleases,

Through water and desserts, dark and light;

Each drop and second, it often seizes

And through whirlwinds, it dares to fight.

No terror or gas can stifle it completely,

For its purple petals are always left behind;

Nothing can kill its roots entirely

Because, usually, they under boulders hide.

Men who kiss each other hide in purple fields

Because it's their only way to escape

And drop their knives, spears, or shields

While freeing themselves from the old shape.

Lavender is a scent that I admire

That pushes me to write as I aspire.

14. About Friendship

Like bears who share their honey

Or cats with a more quiet, cold feeling,

People often spend some money

To strengthen the friendship's sealing.

I buy books or albums to those with a similar taste

For the sheer pleasure the act brings to me;

But I see it is, among us, a common trait,

A way to avoid drowning in the indifference's sea.

I give without needing to receive

Because from it, I feel such a great pleasure;

Yet it is a gesture some seem to retrieve

Because the joy of it is for everyone a leisure.

I don't think I could live without any friends

Because I could meet the world's various ends.

 

15. A. Neil Perry 

A bright sun shines upon his head and heart

Shimmering through the smile often on his face;

He brings light where others see darkness in art

And always warms others in his embrace.

He's an actor, in and out of the theatre of wrath,

Who wears Puck's crown, usually proudly;

He wants to feel himself through this path,

Although, it could prove to be rather deadly.

In his father's chair, he chooses a bullet

And closes his eyes before the open window;

In the blood of his heart, he signs his sonnet,

And ends up leaving his friend in limbo.

He knows life cannot be lived without art

And lets the bitter blood pour from his heart.

B. Neil Perry 

În minte și inimă, vezi adesea soarele
Strălucind prin zâmbetul ce-l are pe figură;
Aduce lumina unde alții văd numai durerile
Și încălzește pe oricine cu a lui privire sigură.
E un actor, înăuntrul și-nafara teatrului mâniei,
Ce poartă a lui Puck coroana și trăiește în arte;
Pe această cale, vrea să simtă mândria expresiei,
Deși conștient că-l poate duce la moarte.
Pe fotoliul tatălui, un glonț alege onestul
Și își închide ochii la fereastra cea deschisă;
Cu sângele inimii își semnează sonetul
Și lasă, în camera prietenului, lumina stinsă.
El știe că viața nu poate exista fără artă
Și lasă amarul inimii să deseneze o hartă.

16. Hadrian

Hadrian strides through the empty halls,

Trying to find one person specifically;

He hears no breath or answer to his calls,

But only finds the tunic of Antinous, essentially.

The yell turns into a tear and then another, 

Feeling each of them in the heart like arrows;

Every servant or senseless word was a bother

As nobody could extinguish his sorrows.

"Antinous!" he wails into the void's emtiness

But it slowly, slowly becomes sound only;

His numbness begins to turn into deafness

As he will not hear the song of the lonely.

Hadrian weeps, staring the tunic's adornment,

And is always reminded of his endless torment.

 

17. Ice

 Looking outside, the windows are frozen

Because the winter kissed by flat as well;

I count its wonders to be about a dozen,

Including its whispers through every bell.

Through ice, I often see more clearly

Because snow quiets every conflict;

It is a season I hold quite dearly

Because I forget the wounds they inflict.

It's spring again when yelling breaks the ice

And the same fights keep exhausting me;

In this time, I start to play the dice

To choose what's the luck that I will see.

I smile at the winter's distant words

And admire all its different worlds.

18. Mermaid's Song

As I open the windows, I hear a sound

That's so familiar, yet odd as a distant land;

It breaks bones and glasses because it's so loud

That it reduces all it reaches to mere sand.

Yet it calls me, as the mermaids Odysseus,

To listen to its symphony without words;

Though it's something often deemed as tedious,

It's also something that fills and creates worlds.

Alas, I start to write my sonnets to sing

To bring the rainbow to gray faces;

It's through words that ideas can ring.

And leave in a binary world colourful traces.

I sing the glory and sorrow of all the poets

While of iron I craft most of my sonnets. 

(source of the image: https://images.fineartamerica.com/images/artworkimages/mediumlarge/3/orpheus-at-the-tomb-of-eurydice-johann-peter-krafft.jpg)