I have ghosts on my mind this week, with Halloween, The Day of the Dead and All Saints Day all swirling beneath the surface. A good yarn, which is all any poem should aspire, at least the ones that keep my attention, require some truth, a truth worth tending. The question is always how much truth comes from a writer’s imagination and how much from their experience? Truth in literature may be fabricated entirely. An empathetic phrase by which we catch a collective breath of understanding.
I write primarily in first person. I realize that this may create confusion for anyone who knows me personally and chooses to view the narrative as literal. What is real and what is not real? Isn’t that the cloak behind which all writers hide and invent a reality worthy of putting to paper.
We don’t have Shakespeare’s blog or twitter feed to gain further insights into his poetry. He left the interpretation of his writing to the reader. But make no mistake, Love plays a role in all this business. A most generous Love, a Love that both clasps hearts in irons and springs the lock of freedom.
Shakespeare’s Sonnet 29, in my view, is a mirror in which to view myself. Yes, it is hubris to put one of my sonnets alongside Shakespeare’s and pretend they belong in the same space. But then isn’t it hubris that drives any of us to write in the first place? My sonnet, Gallant Ghosts, Undaunted, was written during the tail spin of a relationship. It is a fictional Polaroid of a future yet to be experienced, but hoped for with an optimism of forgiveness. I was delusional. Hell hath no fury…..
It is a connection to a beginning and an homage to the role that poetry played throughout our relationship. I am fully aware that the last few words are identical to a sonnet from the 1700s. I will share the story behind that fact in the next blog.
By William Shakespeare
Gallant Ghosts, Undaunted
by T. A. Fry
I think of you, writing late in the nightfall
Revering your muse, as no other may place
Claims to a heart, forever a rightful
Palace of dreams, once my saving grace.
What’s mine is yours, our auspices blessed
By memories of loving which illumine my soul.
On Darkest Night(s) as you slowly undress,
Recall my touch, though its loss be a toll.
Come gallant ghosts, lay down by my side
Undaunted: whisper poems long written for me.
Their haunting passion shall always reside
Deep in bruised hearts, a grand larceny.
Timeless this beauty, in mind’s eye I hold,
The feel of your lips and outlive the old.
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