Poems Writ for Lublu FRONT COVERPoems Writ for Lublu
It is no surprise that a writer pens poetry to the woman he loves, especially when her life-long passion is theatre, drama, plays and Shakespeare's sonnets. And that the offering will be grandiose, florid, passionate pastiche because the writer can only pit a miserable wit against an over-shadowing genius. It was appreciated the Lady, as she is referred to throughout this book, was gracious about my efforts from the start.
Neither is it unexpected that the poetry will sink to introspection and despair when the writer learns his loved one is dying. You can't present poetry about the nuances of death to the dying. It was fortunate early in the sequence I introduced a parallel world, one relating to the Lady's childhood toys placed in the setting of her beloved home, King's Court. Hope, tenderness, reassurance could be expressed in this noble nursery theme. The change shows from about half-way through the sequence.
These fifty-one sonnets Poems Writ for Lublu: A Tragedie in Fifty-one Sonnets are almost the only poems I have written. It was a steep learning curve but surprising how quickly one can get a feel of a literary form, especially when driven.
There is more information a flip book and .pdf sample of the book and buying options on the Poems Writ for Lublu pages at RoseTintedSpecs Imprint.
Here are Sonnets I, II and X followed by XXVIII, XXIX and XLVII.
Sonnet I
Joy Lane, 24 April 2000


'Tis plain clear there's no such word as never
when I dost vow to dote on thee for ever.
But though I muse the Master's imitation,
certain do I know my limitation!
I thank thee for a fulsome, homely fĂȘte,
Playful Maiden well and truly met,
to whom is penned this humble rhyming part
from one full gone to win his Lady's heart.
To dine the morrow I now long with hunger,
most to feast my eyes on you, my Dreamer.
Tortillas wait, I say! We are come soon
to dip into a lusty Spanish spoon.
'Tis obvious late, this sonnet's bound to slip!
I bid thee well tonight from heart and lip.
 
Sonnet II
Stockholm, 30 April

So hard, the tender touch of our embrace,
to feel each other's gently beating hearts
then prised away, you always full of grace
while I did want to reach those deeper parts.
So cruel then, your whispered promised tryst,
your fleeting fingers sealing lips untold
except that I return and you insist
we will be one and I, you will behold.
So chilling now, your eyes of molten green
warming Arctic waters dark and deep
that twilit April eve where swans do preen
and salmon pink 'cross royal blue do leap.
Now within your private gaze, to bare
my soul to you in trust I am to dare.

Sonnet X
Joy Lane 8 June

Since Moon and Mother Earth embraced of old
the Rosy Orb has fiery passion thrust
and spread its glowing hand of fingers gold
'cross endless empty morns of cosmic dust.
Then has it also slipped the gift of night,
such, impassioned lovers calm and gaze
'twixt pleasure sighs and whispers tight
a myriad of silent stars ablaze,
to dream celestial paths paralleled
through stars flung far across Elysium's field,
a firmament so eagerly beheld,
a Milky Way laid fresh as loved ones yield.
Through Heaven's age-old paramour's delight
we will go far our star-gazed lovers' flight.

Sonnet XXVIII
John Wilson Park, 15 September 2001


A tear did slip when Lublu hurt her armtwice now tumbled with the naughty witches.Kindly Seamstress said "no lasting harm,
all she needs is love and fine new stitches."
Beneath a watchful beaming face, the Moon,
the birds did line and show a friendly wing,
Pierrot raised his flute to rouse a tune,
the gathered courtyard crowd began to sing.
Crickets, bats and owls upon the tiles
even livened up the crispy air
such the chorus brought those lovely smiles
before their Mistress left for her repair.
Pierrot held her tight and kissed her dear.
He was there and nothing need she fear.

Sonnet XXIX
King's Court, 17 November


Night yet before the day to steal away,
breathing silent, bathed in silver raw
from misty courtyard drizzle-cold and fey,
my Sylvan Sprite I gaze upon in awe.
Thus I start this ode as every day
by moor or wood or shore of foaming gold,
past flowering hedge along Spring's vibrant way
where fruits a-ripen as your smiles unfold,
through Summers fresh to dance and Autumn stroll.
Arm-in-arm a foggy eve we slow
and you do warm the hearth of Winter's toll,
setting days of darkened nights aglow;
our timeless journey while you softly sleep,
on which, my Beauty, I do silent weep.

Sonnet XLVII
John Wilson Park, 31 December 2002

Peacefully upon her lace-edged pillow,
twilight grey on cool pink satin sheet,
Lublu's in the land that Time does slow,
savouring his slumbered charges sweet.
Her fine friends did also coo last eve
her rouge-done cheeks and eyes like patterned dishes,
trilling, turning, nodding, truly pleased
that she did cast her basketful of wishes.
So innocent she wakes from Tenderland,
stirred gently now by bars of gold, deep slept,
a maiden just let slip her Pierrot's hand,
that he in crepuscule had quiet wept
awaiting the return his Rag Doll Queen.
He cannot go alone where lovers dream.


 
Hand-made edition 2002