Photo of Gulag prisoners‘Gulag’ by Sam Gilliland The Society October 4, 2018 Beauty, Culture, Deconstructing Communism, Poetry 7 Comments For John McCain, Ernest C. Brace, & Alexander Solzhenitsyn I season my pen with the sonnet’s blood, And do not reason with a moonless sky, Thus, in durance, we hearken to the wry Whisper of words from the drifting brood Of dreams courting a wistful brotherhood; Ah, now I need more words, words with the sly, Careful murmur of thought, coy incubi That spread, so softly, throughout mien and mood, Words forged in moments, penned upon pale Pages of the mind, plucked from Time’s scrip, Detailing secret rites that shall unveil Night nymphs dancing as they Petrarch worship. I seek repose where Doric dreams prevail, To bronze truth, with questing quill, nib a-drip. © Sam Gilliland. Residing in Scotland, Sam Gilliland is a champion of Lallans (the Scottish language) poetry and a recipient of Sangschaw’s prestigious MacDiarmid Tassie. With three previous collections of poetry published his work in Scots includes A Rickle O Banes (Penny Wheep Press). Founder/Secretary of Ayrshire Writers & Artists Society the organisation became the home of The Scottish International Open Poetry Competition, to which he devoted twenty eight years of his life as co-administrator and judge. Related Post ‘The Migrant Caravan’ by Lud Wes Caribee (poetry by Bruce Dale Wise) The Viacruces del Migrante, migrant caravan, which started out two hundred strong has grown to thousands, and keeps on ... Tell the world:FacebookTwitterTumblrPinterestRedditLinkedInEmail 7 Responses Michael Dashiell October 4, 2018 An intelligent poem, not old-fashioned though historical. Reply William Krusch October 4, 2018 I have read this poem ten times now, and I am still left in a complete sense of awe and wonder – I am speechless, and I know not how to even describe the brilliance of this composition. The musicality of this sonnet excels that of any living poet, and this poem deserves far more attention and praise than it has received so far. Compositions such as this sonnet are the works of art that prevail for centuries – no further words can do this sonnet justice. Reply E. V. October 4, 2018 The imagery is beautiful and I loved the opening line. Reply Jack Beaulieu October 4, 2018 I think it deserves comment too, for several reasons: the dedication (to three people who went through hell of a kind most of us can’t even imagine); the period shift that pops out of nowhere in the closing triplet (and bangs you in the eye); the indisputable subtlety and cleverness of the piece, from beginning to end. I didn’t immediately fathom its depths. When something suddenly dawned on me, a faint rumble of mirth rose up from my gut. “I…do not reason with a moonless sky”…”Ah, now I need more words”… “a wistful brotherhood.” Then that spectacular sudden shift into reverse to lend zip to the drips. Thanks for this. It gives inversion a new lease on life. Reply James A. Tweedie October 5, 2018 What an interesting and intriguing suggestion, Jack. I have just re-read the poem back to front and found new meaning and cohesion where I had stumbled at first. Is it possible this was intended or is it a serendipitous coincidence? How odd to find a poem that reads magnificently well in both directions! Reply James A. Tweedie October 6, 2018 A word of clarification to my previous comment. I am not suggesting that the poem reads well backwards grammatically (in this sense it reads best forwards) but that the sequence of thought and image flows equally well in both directions. After reconsideration I cannot see how this could have been intentional. Even so, it remains an interesting observation—a curiosity that only makes a powerful and well-crafted poem even more interesting and compelling. Jack Beualieu October 6, 2018 Yes, that would sure be rare, and show a two-way flair. And yet, it’s subtle as Rilke, but Rilke with a tortured twist. Observe the wry inverted orderist. Scramble a bit, says it, contrive a backwards line sublimely writ for the backward to test their wit. The prisoner’s message is mist, lost in shadows of Sanskrit. It’s like a secret tryst. And who could regret it? Who could but in humble reply, shout out an aye to the comatose sky for such a gimlet-eyed opening gambit? Reply Leave a Reply Cancel Reply Your email address will not be published.CommentName* Email* Website Notify me of follow-up comments by email. Notify me of new posts by email. This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.