The full texts of five sonnets composed
by readers of Other Men's Flowers

with comments by The Onlie Begetter

Untitled

I can't get that damn'd song out of my mind.
You know the song I mean, the one about
The bloody drummer boy. With rage I'm blind.
It makes me want to rip my eardrums out.
Please stab me with a drumstick through the heart.
Or shut me in a padded room and latch
It tight before the "rum-ba-bum-bum" part.
If e'er one hint of "rum-ba-bum" I catch
I swear I'll slaughter everyone in sight.
Whoe'er wrote it is a curséd creature.
Give me 'Tis the Season or Silent Night;
Banish please the Crosby-Bowie feature.
Just this one Christmas wish I beg of you.
Can any sane man claim it is untrue?

Eric

This one does have a comprehensible meaning, a praiseworthy attribute though not actually required by the rules. There is an occasional uncertainty of metre here which keeps it out of the very first rank, but as lawyers' sonnets go it is a very good effort.

To the One I Love

Thy ebriection does not chill my mind,
O bausond love: I’ll wait on thee about;
And to thy undinism I’ll be blind—
And yet, unleal, thou hast now shut me out.
Would I could melt thy lapidescent heart!
Would that thy xenial self would raise the latch!
Thy callipygous form awakes my part
Leaves me pallescent, in my voice a catch
For thou art centrobaric in my sight,
Thou hylophagous, kerygmatic creature!
I long to gleekly hopple you at night
That I might deek your ev’ry dromic feature.
Unseel me, love! I’ll dree to you,
And I shall swear I’ll never be untrue.

Outeast

The poet is in sequipedalian mode which gives this sonnet a certain cryptic charm, though a charge of clever-cloggery might be justified. Several of the words were unfamiliar to me; those I checked do exist but are not always used appropriately. Does his love really have dromic features (in the shape of a race-course or the basilican type of Eastern churches)?

What Dreams May Come

A monstrous ray of blackness fills my mind
My ears do echo silence. All about
Is dark. No comfort here, for to be blind
And deaf, and dumb, and totally without
Sensation or the beating of my heart
Does keep my soul from opening the latch
Which leads me on to you, that other part
Of me, nor can I ever hope to catch
Such treasure as one single, precious, sight
Or sound, or touch, of that exquisite creature.
For all around me is the shroud of night
In which such skeins of beauty cannot feature.
O bitter dream! All happy thoughts of you
Are false, and all my memories untrue.

Gervase

This kind of glum sentimentality is unattractive, particularly when it is totally insincere. If I did not know the poet personally I would feel sorry that he is so miserable but in fact he is a jolly old Scotsman who does a notable impersonation of Billy Connolly. I suspect he had a good Hogmanay and wrote this rubbish during a monumental hangover.

CXIII

Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind;
And that which governs me to go about
Doth part his function and is partly blind,
Seems seeing, but effectually is out;
For it no form delivers to the heart
Of bird of flower, or shape, which it doth latch:
Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,
Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch:
For if it see the rudest or gentlest sight,
The most sweet favour or deformed'st creature,
The mountain or the sea, the day or night,
The crow or dove, it shapes them to your feature:
Incapable of more, replete with you,
My most true mind thus makes mine eye untrue

Anonymous

The cryptic title gives no clue as to the theme of the sonnet and the whole thing is obscure and sounds rather amateurish. It seems to be exploring the extent to which the poet's soul has been invaded by the images and the presence of the beloved one. To such an extent is he infected that the things his eye sees are no longer recorded as such, but are transmuted into the lovely features of the youth, whether they be seas, mountains, day, night, crows or doves.

The Lost Sonnet

Soft do the charméd tales of fetter'd mind
Right to the heart's true wisdom turn about
And yet to joy the tongue shall not be blind
Whilst truly doth the voice such bliss give out.
Heaven hath not pleasure for the heart
Which timely shall our greater losses latch
Alas, for e'en unto the greater part
Shall we not breathe, lest drop we fast our catch.
In darkness do we seek the truest sight
Else shrink our eyes from well nigh evr'y creature
And see the brave day sunk in hideous night
Which in our darkest dreams shall ever feature.
If ever I do lose that sound of you
So shall I speak for ever more untrue.

Grumio

It is recognised by his fellow-habitués of the Dog and Duck in Soho that this poet is equally at home with rondeau or triolet, and on the evidence of this elegant piece he is also a fast man with a sonnet. He has cheekily lifted one of his fourteen lines in its entirety from WS and his pastiche is so accurate that it is difficult to decide which one it is.