Welcome back. This week’s sonnet posed a bit of a dilemma for me. I classify many of my sonnets as “unpublishable (for now)” due to either their deeply personal nature or the possibility of being badly misinterpreted. Inherent in misinterpretation is ascribing identity to subjects, real or imagined. Remember that poetry is creative writing, which can be non-fiction, complete fantasy and everything in between. I ran this one by a few friends and think it's safe to proceed. Keep all this in mind regarding future work.
This is a standard Petrarchan Sonnet, ABBAABBA CDECDE.
“I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love.” - Fitzwilliam Darcy. “…I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away.” Elizabeth Bennet
Yes, this is most certainly a love sonnet.
I am a monotheist, so when I reference Greek or Latin names, it is purely based on literature as opposed to religion. As the Muse of Homer himself, Calliope is the greatest Muse in Greek literature. Why settle for second best as my own muse? (Also notice that Calliope is an iambic name, very important to a sonneteer.) I’ve mentioned before, in "Cast Your Stones", and other places, that after writing my 154th sonnet, I was not claiming qualitative parity with Shakespeare. I had simply reached a goal I didn’t consider possible and I was celebrating the achievement of quantitative parity with The Bard vis a vis sonnets only, as the final line in my #154 states,
“Gives me a crown that's missing but your plays.”
All this is but to say, I’m not comparing myself to Homer.
To My Muse #230 Calliope, my virtual Cossette, Consider me your Marius today. In all my hopes and dreams you hold me sway, For ev’ry word I write is in your debt. The rising moon reveals my silhouette Upon these empty streets I walk astray. I seek a brighter light to guide my way, For at the dawn your love for me’s reset. A time or ten, by day my pen has bled, Capricious nature of our rendezvous. At break of day I search for you with dread, It seems that only you can kill my blues. And on this morn my hopes are not upset, Returned you have, my own fair Juliet. Frank Garnick © Copyright The Archer's March 13 February 2023
I’m claiming Calliope as my muse and comparing our relationship with that in “Les Miserables”. Those who know the story don’t need the obvious explained, but I know that many of my subscribers don’t know the story. I can’t have people running around asking, “Who’s this Cossete that Frank’s writing about?!” I’ll assume everyone knows who Juliet is and will understand that reference.
My writing has become very important to me. That others find pleasure or inspiration in my words is gratifying to say the least, yet this is a personal journey. Since rediscovering my ability to write, it has become central to my joy in living.
There are many romances in literature, but I don’t know all of them and not all use an iambic name for the gal, so Hugo’s characters get the nod here. I could just as easily use Brielle, Francine or Sinead, but they don’t rhyme with debt. Jeanette, Linette and Suzette all fit the rhyme but miss the intertextual reference. (See Intertextuality ) I utilize intertextuality a lot in my poetry. Poetry is, after all, an exercise in saying more with less. If I can draw the spirit of a known phrase or even an entire work with the placement of a single word, I usually will. I’ll add that that is why I use such references.
Opening the octet, I compare my relationship with my muse as a virtual love affair. My words are often expressions of my deepest aspirations, thus I must declare and honor their source. I generally write in the early morning, often before dawn. I’m comparing the journey from slumber to wakefulness as a search and that moment where the words come to my hand as the reaffirmation of love between my muse and I.
The Volta admits that dawn is not the only time I write. Sometimes my muse visits me in broad daylight. In the old days, hurricanes were only given female names and I was told in my youth that was due to their unpredictable nature (don’t be so offended, it was a different time and they now use both). I am in perpetual fear that my muse will desert me, so I write of my daily search for the only real guarantor of joy I have. This particular morning brought this sonnet to my hand, so I end with a reference to the return of that most celebrated star crossed heroine in all of literature.
Thanks for reading and have a great day. I would really love some feedback.
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