Sonnets to L——
A Fifteen Sonnet Cycle by Daniel Kenning
Prelude
A vision! Like a dream! She stole my heart
The moment I first saw her from afar.
An angel, a goddess, a work of art—
And I, a moth who longed to touch a star.
Immeasurable seemed the space between us,
Yet I arose to her like a bright spark.
Before the night was through I touched that Venus;
I held her then and kissed her in the dark.
That gray October dawn my love did steal
Away. I rose and followed down the stairs,
Nearly falling, vainly calling after:
“Dear heart, return!”—— Perhaps my heart will heal,
If poetry this separateness repairs,
When I this book of poems give to her.
Sonnet I
A vision! Like a dream! She stole my heart,
Though I would have given it her gladly.
Ecstatic is my love, I love her madly
And in these lines evoke her every part:
Like gaudy Summer’s afterglow seems she—
Splendid, golden Autumn. Her sweet soft sigh’s
A gentle breeze. Her apple-blossom thighs,
Eternal Spring. Her voice, a melody.
Her eyes, like Stella’s, bright beams bound in black.
(And I, her Astrophil, in pomes praise them.)
Her breasts, two Wintry peaks, rose-tipped, snow-capped,
Whose valley were my own heart’s sanctum.
My love for her is evergreen. I’ll pine,
Coniferously, until she is mine.
Sonnet II
The moment I first saw her from afar
I heard a synaesthetic symphony.
My sight went on a fugue. Visionary
Sounds overawed my senses: O, there were
Bold blasts of blaring horns! the mellow moans
Of whisp’ring reeds, the swell of violins—
Composed in fits of musical violence,
Tempered by tender genius! Lustrous tones!
O, sweet vision! Vivid electric hum!
O, vibrant living rhythmic blue-note beat!
O, light-reflecting brass, refracting flute!
Resound, sight-blurring thump of bass! Strike, drum!
Ring, cymbal crash!—— Heard-light and seen-sound meet
In her. When she’s not near, my vision’s mute.
Sonnet III
An angel, a goddess, a work of art!
It is for her I sing my fifteen hymns—
Of her rare eyes, high brow, and supple limbs
I sing. Her beauty strikes me like a dart!
Heaven-sent, gliding upon viewless wings,
She rides the airy waves, the Autumn breeze;
On clouds treads she, o’er red-gold tops of trees;
Bright golden sunlight to her fair form clings.
Yes!—she is a goddess! I am reformed:
A pious pagan! By her lips, her eyes,
Her every aspect, I’m proselytized.
I sing in hopes my goddess be transformed
Into a work of art—a Galatea
Of Intellectual Beauty:—an Idea!
Sonnet IV
I am a moth who longs to touch a star
For she is such a distant beauty—bright
But much too removed yet to keep me warm—
Whose heavenly glow attracts from afar,
Whose remotest flame, whose flickering light,
Is like a beacon shining through the storm
Of tumultuous strife, whose flashes are
Like a message to me, a blessed sight,
Guiding me hence unto her, saying, “Harm
Cannot come to him who follows this star
For he who travels though blackness of night
Will see that I am Beauty’s ideal Form!”
Burn then, papery wings! drawing too near:
Beauty that blinds makes the poet a seer.
Sonnet V
Immeasurable seems the space between us,
But by my love propelled with such great force,
A fledgling Eronaut, I fix my course.
(A sonnet journeys o’er such vast arenas
As only epic heroes dare traverse!)
Way-weary, wand’ring on my gore-scarred raft—
This book of pomes—on her I hone my craft;
Along the longitudinal lines of verse
My words return whence came their inspiration:
Across a sea—the empty page—I roam
(As Odysseus wended his way home
Or as Aeneas roamed to found a nation)
With passion as my polestar; she, my lure.
She is my Rome, my Ithaca—my shore.
Sonnet VI
O, I arose to her like a bright spark
That upward from a blazing bonfire burst;
Like a rocket shooting skyward I was
With passion all a-glow amid the dark
Of night, challenging the stars as I cursed
Mere earth-bound love! What sympathetic cause
Did stir that draft upon which I was borne?
What spirit lent me wings? What hand reversed
Its subtle force, gravity’s pull? Alas,
Without that gentle breeze I’d fall, forlorn.
It is what fueled my fire, my flame it nursed.
It holds me yet aloft. Though winter draws
Near, though she’s grown cooler this November,
Mysterious bellows still stir Love’s ember.
Sonnet VII
Before the night was through I touched that Venus
And darkness that had seemed a leaden curtain
Before my wond’ring eyes was drawn atwain
Revealing all I’d sought. What happiness
I felt—overflowing and splendiferous!—
I can’t recount or in a poem render.
What wild abandon! O, what sweet surrender!
My joy seemed a theater yet more cavernous,
More full of honeydew, more diaphanous,
Than any pleasure-dome seers e’er imagined,
And I with milk of paradise impassioned
Its proscenium arch traversed. My Venus,
Burning like a limelight, through the blackness burst—
Together we played a passion, unrehearsed.
Sonnet VIII
I held her then and kissed her in the dark,
She yielded gently to each sweet caress,
Each touch, each kiss, seemed deeply to impress
Itself upon her sense. I did remark
How like two lotus-eaters we’d become.
On a sequestered shore we two reclined
Where drowsy carefree pleasures we enshrined.
Such was the bounty of our island home
Exotic fruits hung heavy on their boughs,
Tall incense trees grew lush, their strong perfume
Mixed with the fragrant scent of sea-salt spume,
All this and more our senses to arouse!
All braces damned and all relaxes blessed,
The lotus flowers bloomed at my behest.
Sonnet IX
That gray October dawn my love did leave;
As I feigned sleep she furtive stole away.
And every day that follows grows more gray;
In her absence my heart is left to grieve.
Thorough the blinds the grim gray light of day
Shone dim but seemed to me a dark despair,
As by that light I saw she was not there,
For silently she’d risen, gone away.
What was it ’bout our night that made her run?
Was it for fear of me? Or was it shame?
Was she alarmed when I spoke soft her name
And shuddered with her on the peak of passion?
What crimson joy I thought we’d shared that night!
But her flight ended Fancy’s daring flight.
Sonnet X
Away I rose and followed down the stairs,
Intent on catching her whom morning chastened;
Alas, despite my pleas, away she hastened.
Is mine the punishment of one who dares
Draw back the goddess’ veil? Like Actaeon,
Who hunting chanced to catch Diane undressed,
Am I become a heartless hind whose breast
Beats mad with fright from ardor acted on?
I trespassed her sequestered sacred vale,
Her beauty did my senses cauterize.
She threw the water in my burning eyes
And left me blind amid the woods to wail.
O, now the pant of blooded hounds I hear—
The dogs of unrequited love draw near.
Sonnet XI
Nearly falling, vainly I called after
Her to end her flight. Alas, that quarry
Easily evaded her pursuer,
And escaped my words: “My love, I’m sorry!”
I cried: “Tell me, why must it come to this?
Come back, my love—return that we might seal
Our evening’s promise with a morning kiss.”
But she fled faster than my fleet appeal
Could chase her. Out of sight, away she flew.
(The farther yet she goes the more I long.
Most precious now is what I can’t pursue,
For distance trains my ear on that bird’s song.)
A skyward-rising lark, at break of dawn
She vanished, and I wept for she was gone.
Sonnet XII
“Dear heart, return!” Perhaps my heart would heal
If she would heed those words. I can’t pretend
To love her any less: though that might mend
Our separateness, ’twould serve but to conceal
The truth and make my love a sickness seem
For which, in any case, the only cure
My longing heart could honestly endure
Would be to win her love. In fever-dream
Hallucinations would my reeling brain
Envision such a sweet reunion, ne’er
Would I desire again to wake, nor care
For bitter drafts of lies to dull my pain.
Pick not one herb, my friend, pluck not one berry,
For she alone is my apothecary.
Sonnet XIII
Should Poetry this separateness repair
Then I shall toast the blessed Muses nine
With cupfuls from the Hippocrene and wine
From Mount Helicon’s florid vineyards fair,
For what they have inspired me to incant
Is much more precious than the vintner’s toil:
While sweetest wine to vinegar will spoil
Forever Poesie will sweet drafts decant
Into the souls of poets. My cup’s full,
Now let my love drink deep! Now let her savor
This hearty spirit’s rich full-bodied flavor
And drink till she is drunk! I hope to lull
Her senses with these fifteen drafts and prove
Wine’s sweet, but sweeter still by far, my love.
Sonnet XIV
When I present this book of poems to her
I hope she’ll come to understand at last
How, lost amid the whirlwind of the future,
All precious instants slip into the past;
How every brilliant moment fades away,
Exhausted, sinks toward a dim horizon:
Thus life demands of us to seize each day
So that those setting suns we keep our eyes on
Shine somewhat brighter through the hurricane.
For Memory resurrects from its dim death
Each faded moment worthy to remain.
So make the most of time, treasure each breath.
Such is the rarest Beauty we shall know:
The memory of all elsewhere and ago.