Foreward

Lyrical poetry had a major boom in the 16th and 17th century. Petrach and Shakespeare are considered to be the most accomplished sonnet writers, both having forms of different rhyme schemes and meters named after them. They, and other poets like personal favorite Elizabeth Barrett Browning, specifically favor infatuation and depression in sonnet form. Being a lyrical form makes a sonnet pleasant to speak aloud, which elevates it to a form worthy of breath rather than just thought. This breath then allows for a personal, more emotional reading.

This collection brings in the idea of time passing and perspective changing through the mode of season and nature. I wrote This set of poems (some are sonnets and some partial spnnets) in October and November of 2020, during a breakup. These are followed on the next page with a duet written January 2021.

Spring

Just as a solemn, final breath or harsh pant feels released,

long ready to forfeit to the cold one,

like Persephone returning, a bright girl looks at me,

smiling with her hair light golden.

My ice and snow melt as my heart skips two or three beats.

I try to speak, but I'm in too much awe.

This sunflower cracks a joke through commanding grin and greets

Myself, boy with bashful laugh and dropped jaw.

Hearts defrost so much faster than it could ever be safe.

Our soft hands were suddenly intertwined.

Our cardiacs were so full they began to chafe.

In one day winter was paid back in kind.

We know spring never lasts forever for those Greeks,

but stories of love and loss are most fun to speak.

Summer

In summer, I was jovial and ridiculous.

Despite the heat, we pulled close as we could.

I deny human perfection, but perfect was our first kiss,

and the rest were just as good.

She was my adoration and my favorite person,

and, though I'm not the greatest at math,

our love for eachother flourished a year then worsened.

Seasons changed in the next half.

In her eyes I saw she was with me sometimes, not others.

I grew what could, but plants are seasonal,

so I had to accept the decline of her and my summer.

We ended October; Rome had to fall.

We pluck memories like flowers picked for bouquets,

We balance the good weeks with the terrible days.

Autumn

Annually, I hold nervous anticipation

for that period in autumn late

where sopranos of nature pick destinations

abandoning our nests to migrate.

I feel our dead romance daily move more further,

Our time a rose-tinted revision?

But damn, does my heart forest born heart miss her?

A new finality is boasted by this edition.

I muse upon how many other heartbroken poets

flutter along past thoughts with these same birds.

How many write of fall losses and failed love to no rest?

Who also seeks warmer days with these same words?

I endow myself with hope of what future will bring,

and I try to remind myself winter is followed by spring.

Winter

This winter will certainly be ugly and forlorn.

In brambles there is no lover, no friends.

My heart and empty mind by briars shall be sharply torn.

I wear just thorns for starting again.

I'd rather die as Van Gogh than suffer like Tantalus,

rather have no hope than some prospects.

Yet I know December will contain malice.

Bitterness indeed is quite infectious.

Yet I bumble on adding tinder to Hestia's flame.

Only God warms hope to the frigid.

I see other squatters struggling each and each the same,

alone together alone in Blue Ridge

When all else is dead we need meaning to keep going on.

Faith drives through winters when everything is wrong.