The Bard of Woodstock

Who says a sonnet has to be about a fair mistress or a dying flame? Ron Smith's poem "Snake vs. Rat" shows that any subject may be sonnet-worthy.



Snake vs. Rat

 

            New green clothes branches – shy wildflowers blaze

A snake twists cross a bridge in early sun

            A rat, swift from the shadows sniffs and plays

The serpent regards rat and points like gun

 

            Aware not of the coiling foe ahead

The rat looks side to side, then starts across

            On tiny feet the rodent swiftly sped

Crouched low, the reptile blending with dark moss

 

            Too late, the rat perceived the hungry leer

The snake had not a meal for many days

            NO mercy now, the rat with frozen fear

The law is kill or die, has been always

 

            Beside the bridge, a telltale lump, you know

Within the snake the rat begins to show.

 

—Ron Smith

A Sonnet by LAW Fraser

Bird Song

She strikes the piano keys and they tremble.

A song she composed for him that day.
It sat so sad upon the air, incorruptible,
She thought it would never go away.

But the day grew long, the sky turned blue and sunny

bringing the sweetest of birds in song,
So full of joy it replaced a tune so puny
joyfully she listened for; how could this be wrong?

She hears the happy birds return each day

And writes a new song that they inspire,
with many sharps and tweets as they fly away;
a song about longing and lost desire.

She will find a new lover one to adore;

no need to wait for the birds, anymore.

 

LAW Fraser

Homework for 5/1/2014

 

Shakespeare Begins

The homework for my Thursday night class was to compose a sonnet, and Howard Schneider did that and more, writing a sonnet within a story about a certain school boy named William Shakespeare.

His First Sonnet

            As the bell tolled precisely at 7 am, Master Whitman strode into the drafty cold room at the King's New School in Stratford-upon-Avon and called the boisterous boys to order.  A quick glance confirmed all were present, seated properly and ready to begin.

            “Your assignment was to write a short prose essay regarding a worthy life goal,” Master Whitman said. “Mr. Campbell, we will start with you. Stand and read your composition,” he instructed. And so it went, each boy performing as instructed until four boys later when young William Shakespeare was call upon to read.

            Without hesitation he rose and began:

                        Yes sir, today I give my story here,

                        Not as prose, but instead, a sonnet muse.
                        And, as you'll see, for me it is more dear,
                        For tis a style in future I'll oft use.

                        My story is short and tells well this way.

                        It's about a young man who had no wife.
                        He vouched his friends he is willing to pay
                        Whatever it takes to bring love to his life.

                        What befell soon after brought the joy sought,

                        For twas the maid he hired, she was the one.
                        When he won her love, it was not bought,
                        And it lasted forever, never undone.

                        So what happened to him might also to me;

                        To someday find a wife, totally for free.

            There was a stunned silence for a moment upon William resuming his seat. Then, unable to control himself, Master Whitman erupted in anger.

            “That was not the assignment you were given to do William. Instead of serious prose you wasted time on a trivial poem. Even worse, a poem based on a degenerate Italian style concocted in the 13^th century. It is this kind of behavior, young Mr. Shakespeare, that convinces me that you will never amount to anything more than an apprentice in your father's glove-making shop, and any attempt at your further education would be a waste of time and money.”

            But young William barely noticed the raving and blatantly hostile leer of Master Whitman as he sat at his desk, his head bent down over his slate, intently scribbling out an idea for a play about an ancient Celtic king and his three daughters.

Howard Schneider 4.2.14

Performance Poetry

Here's a poem by LAW Fraser, inspired by a performance by Thomas Lauderdale and an assignment to write from music or other sounds.

Beginning Note

 
The note sprang from the piano
surprising everyone,
including the player.

It stayed in the air, spinning there.

It played within each ear
and sped around the room.

Before the next note took its place

this first note took its toll.

The second note was soft.

Soothing broken ears
and slowing rapid pulses.

Relaxing tense shoulders

this note fell freeing the third and
then the fourth followed by the rest.

The song came to an end

with that first note
no-where in sight.

It was gone and forgotten

as the pianist took his bow.

LAW Fraser

4/15/2014