Sonnets as Art Form


I need to refer to ‘The Last Supper’.
Christ’s final dinner with the disciples.
There are depictions, could say, pass muster,
and which art lovers have found delightful.

Titian, Tintoretto, Leonardo
amongst those who sought to capture the scene.
With death imminent, this communal show.
Their imagining how it would have been.

There was the betrayal, and the doubting.
Abandonment, too, before faith restored.
Perhaps water from a holy fountain
was used for washing the feet of their Lord.

Religious significance. Art greatness.
‘The Last Supper’ still resonates with us.


In “Don’t think twice, it’s alright” Bob Dylan
writes of “… your light. The light I never knowed. “
Turns out to be a rhyme, quite brilliant,
as with, “I’m on the dark side of the road.”

I wish there was one I could do or say
which, in the memory like that, would stay,
and, on a recording, now and then, play.
But that’s alright. Maybe another day.

Ain’t no use in calling out my name, babe,
when I’m gone, to learn what it was I meant.
The piper’s tune, by then, will have been played,
babe. It will be far too late to repent.

Things move on, and I’ll be long out of sight.
Not showed, yet knowed. “Don’t think twice, it’s alright.”

REDEMPTION (Often in a film)

Redemption. Forgiveness is a factor.
For self, by others and, perhaps, oneself.
Almost intangible as an actor.
Almost spiritual, its delivered wealth.

Redeeming; an eventual reward.
A dividend earned that, at last, comes due.
But, compensatory factor awkward,
as response to a past misdeed, allude.

Repentance in there. Prepared to make good,
by sacrifice, otherwise not be done.
Balance the account, if possibly could,
although may feel impossible for one.

Maybe life given in retribution,
for a life saved. Near to restitution.


Quite organised and compartmentalised,
I realise my routines have become.
Too controlled, and could be desensitised.
That would result in far too little fun.

Patterns of behaviour firmly engrained.
The comfort of life, assured and knowing.
Adventure of change, not enough attained.
From the staple sowed, little less growing.

Could be more excitement, in a good way.
Could be involved with who knows who, and what.
Might see magnificence come into play.
Might remember some good things I forgot.

I know I like originality.
Out of the box, may find it is with me.


Children, two by two, snake along the path.
A teacher in front, in middle, at rear.
Plenty of chatter. Some, probably daft.
They briskly go, until they disappear.

Relate it to the Pied Piper story.
Singing and dancing to jolly music,
as are taken away on a journey.
Never seen again after their exit.

Where am I going with this? Unpaid bills?
Neglect of childrens’ safety and welfare?
Consequence of adult misdeeds fulfilled?
Marching on of childhood, until no more?

That last one, a matter of destiny.
Pied Piper metaphors are quite scary.


My realisation about music
is that for humans it is a language.
May add words of another, so to speak.
Or, so to sing. Whole song or a passage.

Even the various types, when are heard,
are distinctive, and their origins traced.
Moods invoked are understood or inferred.
The sounds made, like words, are suitably placed.

The familiarity is welcome.
It talks of connection, and of feeling.
Just listen to a recital well done,
or dance to a rhythm that’s appealing.

But my insight is it is language,
spoken, multilingual, on its bandwidth.


It’s not a great film, The Boys from Brazil,
although the actors give it what they’ve got.
Ham it up as though the characters real,
but the plot’s crazy, I’d say, quite a lot.

Genetic engineering at its core,
by the devilish Nazi, Mengele.
Boys, he’s produced numbering 94,
spread around the world, waiting for the day

that one becomes founder of a Fourth Reich.
They are Hitler’s manufactured offspring.
Brought-up in conditions seemingly like,
so fathers’, like his, must die when 14.

Thing is, such foetus change can now be done.
If then, rulers now could be Hitler’s sons.


Mesmeric. Musically hypnotic.
Dreamlike. The sound rhythmically dreamlike.
Ethereal. Could think it exotic.
Gently trance inducing. The mood made light.

One such, the beautifully sung song ‘Dreams’.
The group Fleetwood Mac. Singer, Stevie Nix.
Ordinary pop song is what it seems,
but a dreamy voice and lyric affixed.

Sung, “women they will come and they will go”.
“ … rememb’ring what you had and what you lost”.
“When the rain washes you clean, you will know”.
Then repeat, “what you had and what you lost”.

“Thunder only happens when it’s raining”.
Her drawl mesmerically sustaining.


What does ‘redolent’ mean? I looked it up.
First, ‘reminiscent or suggestive of’.
Something past, by remembrance opened-up.
Nostalgic, or warning to beware of.

Second meaning of the word, ‘smelling of’.
Like the profusion of scented roses.
Or, of the sea, its ozone coming off.
Or decay. The smell the rot exposes.

Nothing to do with red, then, redolent,
unless a reminder of the colour.
Being evocative, though, excellent,
through verse to suggest something or other.

Describes access by memory and sense.
Potential for ‘redolent’ is immense


Redolent has nothing to do with red,
except the word is redolent of red.
Painted all over, image in my head.
This comes to mind when redolent is said.

What is red itself, then, redolent of?
First thought is fire. A real conflagration.
Other colours too, but red a lot. Hot.
That a destructive interpretation,

but afterward new life, new growth, begin.
Second thought is a requirement to stop.
Third, warning of danger, I’m reasoning.
Beyond those, there is blood flowing a lot.

Leftist. Socialist. Marxist. Communist.
Red redolent of more, no doubt, I’ve missed.

If I calm Down
Sonnets Assuming Love