No Sunshine.

[tectak]

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar
but the birds still sang above the sage marquee.
I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in the places where my footfall stopped, I lay.
The scents of life still sifted up through cloying clay below;
damply, like a dream that wakes but why, you never know.
I heard a pulsing heart that was mine but seemed too grand;
it was loud and sounded closer than my senses could explain.
Blood rustled in my ears and beat drums made out of hay
and this was how the music played, a bitter symphony.
No sweet guitars, no violins, no angels singing in the wings,
no song from you, no perfumed hair, no brushing touch,
no warm, moist kiss…I painted out the sunshine yesterday.



After a Van Morrison/ Ray Charles Concert 1996
tectak June 1996

[Erthona]

The intitial pattern set is as follows.

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar (seven of iambs)  
but the birds still sang above the sage marquee.  (anapest, 4 iambs)

However by line six...

damply, like a dream that wakes but why, you never know. (7 feet of trochee)

The pattern breaks down, although there are brief attempts at return. However the lines never regain constancy in relation to one another, even if briefly they almost look as though they individually might be returning to form.

Maybe I am not reading this correctly, but trying to follow what seems to be the reflective self, observing the physical self, becomes a bit of a maze:

"I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in the places where my footfall stopped, I lay."

What this line sounds like is that the speaker is walking across his own grave. I'm not sure that is what is meant, in fact I am fairly certain it is not, but the writing does encourage such an interpretation. Regardless, there is a distinct feeling of death here. The death of who or what is not obvious.

As this is in mild...

dale

[tectak]

The intitial pattern set is as follows.

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar (seven of iambs)  
but the birds still sang above the sage marquee.  (anapest, 4 iambs)

However by line six...

damply, like a dream that wakes but why, you never know. (7 feet of trochee)

The pattern breaks down, although there are brief attempts at return. However the lines never regain constancy in relation to one another, even if briefly they almost look as though they individually might be returning to form.

Maybe I am not reading this correctly, but trying to follow what seems to be the reflective self, observing the physical self, becomes a bit of a maze:

"I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in the places where my footfall stopped, I lay."

What this line sounds like is that the speaker is walking across his own grave. I'm not sure that is what is meant, in fact I am fairly certain it is not, but the writing does encourage such an interpretation. Regardless, there is a distinct feeling of death here. The death of who or what is not obvious.

As this is in mild...

dale

Hi dale, good to hear from you. All well I trust?
You are correct on all points which are open to interpretation but I would allow a wide margin of error. Frankly, I put this one where I put it because I only found it yesterday in my "memories of Concerts Past" box which I was throwing out...I cannot remember what it was about BUT Van Morrison , on stage, was whining on about his marriage bust up and trying to convince an excitable audience of the relevance of his songs to his situation...I think I may have been a little excited with whisky when I wrote it. Didn't count the accentual feet...didn't make it rhyme...didn't go for metaphor...didn't go for imagery. Should go down well here.
Best,
tectak. Thanks for reading. I will try to do better.

[Erthona]

Tom,

I only noted the pattern as it is obvious for the first part then disappears. Had there been none consistently there I would have passed over. Yes, I can related to looking back over past and not having the foggiest. I just never let on that I don't know

Would have liked to have been at the concert. The last concert of note I went to was Dylan and Paul Simon, well really Dylan. I could have just put on the record/cd of PS and got the same effect. Don't really like being in large crowds lately so no concerts for me. No great loss I think. It was always better backstage. " cloying clay" eh? Can clay cloy?  

dale

[tectak]

Tom,

I only noted the pattern as it is obvious for the first part then disappears. Had there been none consistently there I would have passed over. Yes, I can related to looking back over past and not having the foggiest. I just never let on that I don't know

Would have liked to have been at the concert. The last concert of note I went to was Dylan and Paul Simon, well really Dylan. I could have just put on the record/cd of PS and got the same effect. Don't really like being in large crowds lately so no concerts for me. No great loss I think. It was always better backstage. " cloying clay" eh? Can clay cloy?  

dale

clay point noted. Aliteration overload methinks. I still like the feeling of lying face down beneath a living green canopy, in a quiet place and smelling the earth. It is therapy of the most atavistic kind.
See "Smile you smile" from "Brown eyed Girl". I think this was the trigger.
Best,
Tom

---

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar
but birds still sang above the sage marquee.
I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in places where her footfall hushed, I lay.
The scents of life still sifted up through root and loam below;
like dampness dream-breaks,why? You never know.
I heard a pulsing heart I thought was mine, but seemed too grand;
much louder than my senses could explain.
Blood rustled in my ears like beating drums made out of hay;
while music played a bitter symphony.

No sweet guitars, no violins, no angels singing in the wings,
no song from you, no perfumed hair, no brushing touch,
no warm, moist kiss…I painted out the sunshine yesterday.


Original

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar
but the birds still sang above the sage marquee.
I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in the places where my footfall stopped, I lay.
The scents of life still sifted up through cloying clay below;
damply, like a dream that wakes but why, you never know.
I heard a pulsing heart that was mine but seemed too grand;
it was loud and sounded closer than my senses could explain.
Blood rustled in my ears and beat drums made out of hay
and this was how the music played, a bitter symphony.
No sweet guitars, no violins, no angels singing in the wings,
no song from you, no perfumed hair, no brushing touch,
no warm, moist kiss…I painted out the sunshine yesterday.

[burrealist]

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar Are you saying the sunshine is fading out, erasing? The verb "paint" suggests an addition of vivid imagery, not a depletion of it. 
but the birds still sang above the sage marquee.
I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in the places where my footfall stopped, I lay. I think this is grammatically incorrect. A period might work right after "stopped" to really enhance the pause.
The scents of life still sifted up through cloying clay below;
damply, like a dream that wakes but why, you never know. 
I heard a pulsing heart that was mine but seemed too grand;
it was loud and sounded closer than my senses could explain. I like the internal rhyme of "loud" and "sounded".
Blood rustled in my ears and beat  drums made out of hay You seem to be adding extraneous words for the meter. Meter is quite difficult- it requires an elaboration of economic language. Right here, I feel like you've taken away from that elaboration.
and this was how the music played, a bitter symphony.
No sweet guitars, no violins, no angels singing in the wings, Double meaning of "wings"- nice! Is that called word-play or a pun? I actually don't know.
no song from you, no perfumed hair, no brushing touch,
no warm, moist kiss…I painted out the sunshine yesterday. "No moistened kiss"? The word "warm" feels gross, but also feels forced into its place.



After a Van Morrison/ Ray Charles Concert 1996
tectak June 1996

[Brownlie]

I painted out the sunshine with a brush of broom and briar -- a broom and briar brush? comma before but with the conjunction?
but the birds still sang above the sage marquee.
I tried to listen downwards where the silence used to be,
in the places where my footfall stopped, I lay.
The scents of life still sifted up through cloying clay below;
damply, like a dream that wakes but why, you never know.
I heard a pulsing heart that was mine but seemed too grand;
it was loud and sounded closer than my senses could explain.
Blood rustled in my ears and beat  drums made out of hay -- Comma? I mean you are using punctuation, and you have two complete thoughts with the conjunction. 
and this was how the music played, a bitter symphony.
No sweet guitars, no violins, no angels singing in the wings,
no song from you, no perfumed hair, no brushing touch,
no warm, moist kiss…I painted out the sunshine yesterday.



After a Van Morrison/ Ray Charles Concert 1996
tectak June 1996

Hey this poem went in an unexpected direction with the turning and whatnot. Maybe a few too many prepositions. Seems pretty good for sonnet, though you're a maniac for using such an archaic mode.