On Writing Sonnets, Love, and Igor Stravinsky

      When inspired to write about love, the obvious never-ending font of inspiration, one might assume that the motivation for expressing myself in sonnets would come from reading William Shakespeare or Elizabeth Barrett Browning. In fact, I am more drawn to the sonnet as a writing form because of something the great composer Igor Stravinsky said:

Igor Stravinsky

"The more constraints one imposes, the more one frees one's self. And the arbitrariness of the constraint serves only to obtain precision of execution."

By adhering to a specific form such as fourteen lines in iambic pentameter with a specific rhyme scheme, and a turn of thought at the end, the writer is challenged to find the perfect word, the perfect order of words, the perfect metaphor to perfectly and beautifully capture the mind and heart of his or her intended audience.

I do realize that sonnets have been written about subjects other than love, but I wonder what other subject could possibly be worth the effort? Again, I turn to Stravinsky, who asked

"In order to create there must be a dynamic force, and what force is more potent than love?" 

and 

"Is it not by love alone that we succeed in penetrating to the very essence of being?"

To which I answer: It is, Igor. It is.

And so I'll share with you one of my sonnets in hopes of setting your pen in motion.

3/12/2012

Among what we behold, in all we see

We found a treasure rare and so sublime.

Incomprehensible that others be

repulsed, repelled, and yet, if given time

perhaps a judgment softens. Maybe though

the outward form for them remains the same

new reason tempers their perception so

what once reviled gives way to lesser shame.

But even if the world does not consent,

If those around us blindly cast disdain,

Together we hold fast to our intent

And cherish what the others find profane.

Take comfort in the love that we have found.

For unto one another we are bound.

 

 

On Turning Fifty

I suppose I should've changed the title of my blog but I didn't. Forty-nine... fifty, fifty-one, sixty-one...  I don't think it much matters anymore. I've arrived at a place in my life where I don't put up with irrelevancy (among other things for which I have no patience) and age, at some point, is irrelevant. It's irrelevant in the respect that once you've reached the age at which your parents previously seemed old, the exact number no longer matters. Maybe it matters to actuaries, but not to me.

The love of my life is turning sixty-one this week and not happily. He worries a little bit about being ten years older than I am. I guess in some perverse way I like that he's older because it makes me feel younger kind of in the same way that hanging out in a Walmart in Wisconsin makes me feel thinner. Really, though, I've always had a thing for older men and he is fantastically sexy and nothing makes me happier than to be seen on his arm.

The nice thing about fifty is that I'm doing what I want. Mostly. I'm writing. I go out. I spend time with my friends - and my kids when they'll have me.  

When I was about thirteen I asked my grandpa how it felt to be old. He said he didn't feel any different than when he was thirteen except he didn't recognize the old guy in the mirror. I can relate except that I do recognize the old woman in the mirror. It's my mom.