Pop Sonnets

Today's songs in yesterday's words.

[popsonnets]

A Mournful Coo

I bid thee, grow a garden in thy mind: All pungent purple petals, bathed in dew-- Where birds and beasts splay, caught as in some bind, Ensnared and petrified by our love true. But, lover, from this Eden we’ve been barred. Though sorely its tranquility we seek. Morose, I wonder why we’re so ill-starred While, rancorous, we fume and stomp and shriek. I fear that, like my father, I’m comprised Of wanton wrath and overweening gall. And thou art like my matriarch reprised, Well keen to render all good fortune small. Now Noah’s winged scout’s too grieved to fly. Our crowing’s what it sounds like when doves cry.

[popsonnets]

Magdalene Becometh Madonna

A foundling slattern, wasting in the wood, Lost long enough to lose the thought of home A bruiséd wretch was I, and caked in mud When thou didst bear my body from the loam. And fine thou wert, and fine thou art, and mine And, being yours, my strength was fast returned Once more, was white like lace, and pink like wine As one who’d never been loved and then spurned. So, cry the banns outside the nearest barn! Pay my dowry to a passing cook. And I’ll knit me a gown from whitest yarn And married we will be for all who look. And so I’ll be, in this fair pantomime, A maiden, touched for the very first time.

[popsonnets]

Comeliness Reclaimed

Promethean, I wield forbidden fire; My fellows falter in a darkness deep. Though flint they strike, they cannot spark desire, While I alone can breach a maiden’s keep. With you, though, I am anything but brash. For you, I’d be a bondsman, happily. My mistress, rage, and lick me with your lash. I will be yok’d, I will be chok’d with glee. I bid you show me, girl, your kit of tools -- The instruments by which you do ensnare Those flocks of slobbering, simpering fools. Then you and I may make a fearsome pair. While other men are wanting, callow, slack, Anointed, I am bringing sexy back.

[popsonnets]

Country Matters

O, Lady, that I might carry thee off, To destinations reaching ‘cross the map! If thou art moved, for lack of chairs, to scoff, I’ll make for thee a seat upon mine lap. The New World to the Indies I’ve traversed, Lo—borne across as if by fabled ark, So thou, sweet maiden, might now praise my verse, And on my writ of passage leave thy mark. As one who fell from Babel, I may boast I’ve sampled the tongues of ev’ry nation, But I comprehend that which matters most: Thy fairness requireth no translation. I’ve traveled far, o’er desert, air, and sea That I might hear thee talk dirty to me.

[popsonnets]

Winter's Boast

O Halt, my fancy friends, and cock an ear! My new creation all day clutches tight! Tis, in motion, like to spartan spear, Or triton’s barbs aloft in deadly flight! And Canst thou hope to stop it? I know not. A jumping candle solely lights the stage Blow out the candle.  Look ye - I glow hot And shake the amphitheatre with my rage. So like the poisoned fungus goes my metre! It kills thy brain, and senses all doth smother. Like pork I cook my rivals in the theatre Whilst I exchangeth sweet words with thine mother. The cymbals, tempo, hats all drive me crazy So twice the clarion call: Ice, Ice Baby!

[popsonnets]

Ardor Putrescent

Oh, Love is that which binds and flogs and flays. My life is but a symphony of sighs. A gnawing pain does dog me all my days As salt tears seep from my afflicted eyes. Cyan, my veins do throb and strain to burst. Red pustules have bloom’d across my brow. My skin, a rashy, porcine pink and, worst, A deathly ardor doth infect me now. Love hounds me like a pack of half-starved curs —  Condemns me like some deity displeased. It spurns my offering of gems and furs And leaves me cursed and quaking, on my knees. No worse disease through bodies stalks and slinks So hear this haggard wretch and know; love stinks.

[popsonnets]

One Blow More

I am desirous of a perfect love, And, sooth: in what we had, I doth believe. But truth, as bolts of lightning from above, Hath struck me: thou art gone, and I must grieve. As Eros aims his arrows, groping blind, So stumble I, seeking thy sweet embrace. One queer and creeping query on my mind: What reasoning explains our fall from grace? Not from hunger pains, thirst, or excess toil But from a lack of thee will I expire. My stomach churns, my treach’rous entrails roil, A fever, raging, sets my mind afire. My need for thee defies all verse or rhyme. I beg thee: hit me, baby, one more time.

[popsonnets]

Eros' Arrows

If wishes are but coins in water cast And tapestries of Eros mere display Then art and money find themselves outclassed By whate'er humid wind blew you my way. I thank thy tunic, too, for letting skin Conjure tantalus above thy jeans Which sound a truth above the festive din: Cupid's barbs thy pants incarnadine. More shafts whiz past and stick in other men Who in that red mist will do what they will But, stranger, thou who put the "wh-" in when: I only shout: my kingdom for a quill! Still. We are newly met, and this is crazy. But proffered is my number. Call me, maybe?

[popsonnets]

Pride Surpassing

You strode so boldly into the ballroom As though it were the bridge of some great bark, And all the maidens sought you for a groom Undone by your grin, or a dry remark. You said we sparkled fair and ever would, Then parted with your treasures, once so dear-- Beloved jewels tossed off for good, And I, among these gems, no more revered. At the king's joust, you spurred a champion mare, Then journeyed north, to see the day made dusk. Wherever you ought be, you surely are. No damsel can resist your potent musk. You have a pride surpassing, this be true; You prob'ly think this sonnet's about you.

[popsonnets]

A Missive From Sir Richard of Rolls

Both you and I have walked the paths of love. We’ve charted maps and know what dangers lurk. Now that I’m yours, I’ve made a roster of Romantic duties that I’ll never shirk.   To disappoint, to circumambulate And leave you on your own is not my way. Sorrow shall never press you with its weight. I promise you that I am here to stay.   Though other men may boast of silver tongues And use their gifts to harm or to deceive, That’s for the inexperienced and young. I’ll never play you false or make you grieve.   To you I make this toast, so raise your cup. Know that I’m never going to give you up.

[popsonnets]

Well Spake, Frederick

Off, fine shirt, my vestments I abjure- My swoll'n corpus unfettered wilt do. Observe my ripp'ling maleness and be sure Eros likes me naked more than you. Out, cruel muse, fickle fairy, flit Away and wax not nobly nor profound Rather, wither, vanish - Kill thy wit! (Eros Loves the dumb and horny hound.) And you, my quill, dead feather dipp'd in ink All poised to scratch sublime, oblique, or frank I now refuse to write, or even think - Eros wants his ivory sheets left blank. It's not my wish, fair maiden, you to hurt. It's just that I'm too sexy for my shirt.

-Frederick, Act 3 Scene 4, A Little Turn On the Walk of Cats.