Well, it's been a while since I posted on this blog. My hard drive gave up the ghost over a week ago, and I had to buy a new computer. It got installed last night.
That being said, I want to post a poem tonight, a sonnet to be precise, that will get us back on track; and, at the same time, go back to "our roots." In short, as Mr. Wilkins Micawber said quite often in David Copperfield, I would like to get back to the beauty of words.
Sonnet 5
Christopher Bogart
From Salisbury Plain, where sandstone pillars stand,
These ancient muted sounds still swirl around
The silent sentries of an ancient land,
To fill new voices with their wondrous sounds.
Was it the Celtic Brythons gave them voice?
Did Saxon scops stir them from primal bowers
To challenge Norman lords’ linguistic choice?
Did troubadours distill their mystic pow’r?
Did Chaucer lay them on the wind’s sweete breeth?
Did Shakespeare fling them all around the Globe?
Did Johnson transport them to holts and heethes
From city salons and royal strongholds?
This tongue turns red into incarnadine,
To let me revel in this language mine.
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