Crazy Shapes: Twelve Sonnets by Gary Bills

Crazy Shapes: Twelve Sonnets by Gary Bills

Phoenicians

So long as one Phoenician ship survives,

Deep in Pontic glooms - where rot and worm

Are never found, those traders share our lives,

They share our times; their portion is our term

When both exist materially - their mast,

Their oars, are ready for adventure, as are we:

To seek the spice and copper is their task –

From shore to shore we share the mystic sea.

Let’s set out like those men with purple beards,

With purple robes, dyed rich in murex stain;

Although their words are strange, we share their chart –

(It’s drawn in blood from every human heart)

Let’s seek new harbours – set aside our fears

And tell ourselves the world is fresh again.

Aristotle’s Neighbours

342 BC

 

"They cannot shape the keystone for a span

nor stretch a marble bridge through gaping air -

they'll never think it through... from man to man

a different spirit animates the stare;

but let your eyes express a god-like flame

and see the god-like statue on the hill;

let's dance across the bridge and chant His name -

those stupid, jealous eyes, observing still

might find a spark in beauty to ascend -

might yearn to share our city and our peace,

to meet you in the square and call you 'friend',

despite the churning savagery beneath

that still would drown the sacred lamps of nations,

with seas of spite, from failing generations.”

 

Empire

1740

Choose gold and silver threads to make the Crown,

Those costly, glinting lines that change the lie;

Choose Latin words for mottos – set them down,

And let our banner dominate the sky -

A great, embroidered flag for every mast

To help our armies cheer as they set out

To offer commerce – partnership at last;

(Or else the chance to perish in a rout.)

Those fools who might oppose us – all must see

How we have made a blazon for their world,

Inspiring them to rise from misery,

When sanctity and order are unfurled;

And if we’re less than candid in our aim,

Consider what these savages will gain.

Written in a time of Plague

                   1603

 

What devils might our characters attract

To shape us into fiends? - what anti-grace

Adds nothing - breaks us - only may subtract

The innocence and light from any face? 

Those bodies rolling by make me consider;

Ah, go you not to church? - not one, not one...

The pit's a pauper's grave where Adams wither,

Where Eves decay, when all the suffering's done.

Do people die to Heaven-borne accounts,

When all is tallied up and rendered clean

Because our form is God's form? - damn my doubt!

But if men die in filth – I only mean… 

I mean, if Man's debased, what must I think,

Now tumbril bells announce the passing stink?

Dead clerics after evensong 

 

Cathedral, stir your shades come twilight shade -

Yes, summon them - the old, forsaken dead;

Perhaps a worthy congregation's made

By full or quarter bells, or mouse's tread?

Let candles reignite with spectral trust,

(For even now one sinner might be saved…)

Who wears the dust and whispers like the dust?

Who's grateful for a footstep in the nave?

Who coughs and mutters - now the bells strike seven

And Evensong's a ghost of chants and grace -

Remembered consummation of our prayers:

Those spells of dusk, which warm both heart and air? 

Dead clerics and the living love this space,

And earth, in musty corners, turns to Heaven.

 

Concordia Discors

 

I’ve heard the beat that pins our pitch and day,

which like a bass line threading through a song

still holds the tune together - should I stray;

then frets are found for patterns, never wrong,

beneath the star which lights the polar waste:

the star that sings above the ice and sea -

inspiring us with deep, immortal taste,

to tune the peg and string to constancy.

Sounds come as noise or grandeur, rise and fail;

notation's gone when stones are cracked by frost;

a ballad ends before we know the tale,

but when great bays are starlit – what is lost? -

and north - far north, where prow lamps shine through snow,

poor sailors hear the music come and go.

 

Blue Shiva

Some folks have flames for shadows - step too near

you're ash of course; but one might never learn;

perhaps it's worth an all-consuming fear -

to cry with fierce Hosannas, while you burn?

I'm old now, and my legs decline to dance

and sensual immolation's not my fate;

I doubt the joy of fire, the spell of chance

that lures one in - blue Shiva comes too late,

although he’s juggling bonfires in my head;

his slim, immortal body's not for me,

for Shiva's not the lover of the dead -

(the almost dead…) - accepting what must be

I can reflect, half thankful and half sad,

and lay to rest the loves I never had.

 

Abduction 

 

Pert Ganymede, most beauteous of boys,

felt the eagle’s passion while they rose;

pulled close by talons, fixed as if a toy -

a struggling Trojan princeling – who can know

if terror brought delight - if beating wings

kept time with each assault upon his soul,

his quick breath marking pain? -  Let poets sing

of honour on Olympus – O bear the bowl

Immortal youth, and taste ambrosia too:

Carry to the lips of Zeus your cup

And he will share the kiss… We think of you

like this, of course; but poets make things up! 

and when alone, divine but barely male, 

you are the weeping shadow of your tale.

 

       

          Crazy Shapes 

                 1666

St Pawles, an isle in rivulets of lead

while London burned, fell groaning in its stones -

And wilt thou come no more? - Oh sad! Too sad...

What Resurrection for thy smoking bones,

what church for England now? - the gutters drain,

through narrow, houseless streets, its melted roof…

(the metal splattered down like scalding rain

to hell lakes – crazy shapes - and all uncouth.)

What choirs may sing above these embered flames?

Oh sad! Too sad... here's no transforming fire

that broken Man must feel to know God's name -

for one must slough pollutions of desire

to rise reborn as Heaven's graceful friend;

but no, this is destruction, and an end.

Will Kempe thinks on Doomsday 

                        1603

 

‘Let neither lash nor nail be haggard ta'en

for fear the witch will spell thee unto death...’

Ah, pack me in a chest, from air and rain,

and bottle every atom of my breath

and let me stay intact from charm and spite

except for my shortcomings, these I own -

so if my form’s remade - if nature might

rekindle all I was and bring me home,

I'll wear no other shadows on these bones

but naked stand to hear the Judgement made,

no witchcraft in my sinews - me alone

to nerve and marrow - humble and afraid.

But still, by ghostly bells both cheered and led,

I'll dance a jig and please the stirring dead.

 

Shakespeare considers a Sermon

                     1613

Prodigal son – I’ve been that rogue myself,

but I returned with pride – a coat of arms

to set a salving honour on new wealth,

concluding years of debt: that crippling harm

which Father foisted on our worthy name.

Enough of that! - the vicar’s in his stride:

the fatted calf’s been killed (at last) - the shame

the youngster felt – (quite right) – is set aside.

But what about the other son? – the one

who stayed and worked so hard - yes - what of him? 

Surely, he must seek revenge? One tale is done -

and now, while tipsy kindred raise a din

and cheer that brat’s return, and share the roast,

a lean youth plots in shadows, like a ghost...

 

Poem of the Year

Let January bring her maiden snow,

Let February pour her grail of rain,

And March is only March when rough winds blow

While April sees the violets home again

And May must offer blossoms bright as candles

While June upholds the sun in rippling air;

One must allow July her summer mantle,

But August has the autumn in her hair -

Although September takes the Crown of Fall;

October's for the dead leaves in the lane,

November's for the broom that sweeps them all;

December hangs a star for Mary's pain -

Her cries for change resound through every year,

And thus the slow world turns by hope and fear.

Gary Bills was born at Wordsley, near Stourbridge. He took his first degree at Durham University, where he studied English, and he has subsequently worked as a journalist. He is fiction editor for Poetry on the Lake.

Gary gained his MA in Creative Writing at BCU, with a distinction.

He was nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his post-modernist epic poem, “Bredbeddle's Well”, which was published in Lothlorien in 2022, and he has been nominated for the Best of the Net awards, for his short story, “Country Burr”.

Gary's poetry has appeared in numerous publications, including The Guardian, Magma, HQ and Acumen, and he has had three full collections published, – “The Echo and the Breath” (Peterloo Poets, 2001); “The Ridiculous Nests of the Heart” (bluechrome, 2003); and “Laws for Honey” (erbacce 2020). In 2005, he edited “The Review of Contemporary Poetry”, for bluechrome.

His work has been translated in to German, Romanian and Italian. A US-based indie publisher, The Little French, published his first novel, “A Letter for Alice” in 2019, and a collection of stories, “Bizarre Fables”, in 2021. His second novel, "Sleep not my Wanton", came out in January 2022, and it is due out shortly as a Spanish language version.