05-06-2021, 06:05 AM
I found these random sonnets people wrote and put them to the tune of one poem.
I call it:
Sonnet
I lift—lift you five States away your glass,
Wide of this bar you never graced, where none
Ever I know came, where what work is done
Even by these men I know not, where a brass
Police-car sign peers in, wet strange cars pass,
Soiled hangs the rag of day out over this town,
A juke-box brains air where I drink alone,
The spruce barkeep sports a toupee alas—
My glass I lift at six o'clock, my darling,
As you plotted . . Chinese couples shift in bed,
We shared today not even filthy weather,
Beasts in the hills their tigerish love are snarling,
Suddenly they clash, I blow my short ash red,
Grey eyes light! and we have our drink together.
Raise no monument. For it is the roses
Which salute Him year by year with their petals.
This, you see, is Orpheus. His transformations
Run through this and through that. No need
To trouble ourselves with other names. All signs and tokens
Are Orpheus, if they sing. He winds through everything.
And is it not much if from time to time He broods over
The hanging rose hips for some days yet?
Oh, but He must fade, and we must understand that!
And what if He himself fears this need to waste away?
When His speech transcends the here and now.
Already He is there where we cannot follow Him.
The frets of the lyre cannot compel His hands.
He obeys when he transgresses.
Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation,
It breathes, humbly lurking in moss
Still moist from love following the sweet flight
Of white Buttocks to its rim's heart
Strands like milky tears were wept
Beneath the cruel wind driving them back,
Between little clots of reddish clay
Losing themselves in the beckoning slope.
My dream often mouthed its vent;
My soul, jealous of real coitus,
Made it a musky vessel for sobs and tears.
Swooning olive, tender flute, the tube
From which heavenly praline flows:
I call it:
Sonnet
I lift—lift you five States away your glass,
Wide of this bar you never graced, where none
Ever I know came, where what work is done
Even by these men I know not, where a brass
Police-car sign peers in, wet strange cars pass,
Soiled hangs the rag of day out over this town,
A juke-box brains air where I drink alone,
The spruce barkeep sports a toupee alas—
My glass I lift at six o'clock, my darling,
As you plotted . . Chinese couples shift in bed,
We shared today not even filthy weather,
Beasts in the hills their tigerish love are snarling,
Suddenly they clash, I blow my short ash red,
Grey eyes light! and we have our drink together.
Raise no monument. For it is the roses
Which salute Him year by year with their petals.
This, you see, is Orpheus. His transformations
Run through this and through that. No need
To trouble ourselves with other names. All signs and tokens
Are Orpheus, if they sing. He winds through everything.
And is it not much if from time to time He broods over
The hanging rose hips for some days yet?
Oh, but He must fade, and we must understand that!
And what if He himself fears this need to waste away?
When His speech transcends the here and now.
Already He is there where we cannot follow Him.
The frets of the lyre cannot compel His hands.
He obeys when he transgresses.
Dark and wrinkled like a violet carnation,
It breathes, humbly lurking in moss
Still moist from love following the sweet flight
Of white Buttocks to its rim's heart
Strands like milky tears were wept
Beneath the cruel wind driving them back,
Between little clots of reddish clay
Losing themselves in the beckoning slope.
My dream often mouthed its vent;
My soul, jealous of real coitus,
Made it a musky vessel for sobs and tears.
Swooning olive, tender flute, the tube
From which heavenly praline flows: