Four sonnets (Viola in LA) - original poetry

I :: Viola’s dress

How do you like this tune? Orsino said.
She felt her heart skitter and miss a beat
(and in the blackening night a screeching owl
added to her uneasiness). Shaking,

she hoped invisibly, and unsteady
on her feat, she twisted round to face him.
Not in this costume, she replied. (The strings
replayed the theme which the horns then echoed.)

Viola had thrown her dress together
from a heap of old silk remnants. The daring
slash at the hip had attracted Orsino
but – twinge of regret – made dancing difficult.

The music ended to a ripple of polite applause
with Cupid still lunging blindly about with his spear.

II :: Viola’s fingers

Viola dipped her delicate fingers
into the cool clear water of the butt.
Doubt rippled through her mind as she looked
at her dancing image, the gentle moss,

this damp corner of her garden. Summer
fruit hung heavy from the trellised pears.
Was Orsino just another
masturbating sentimentalist?

she asked herself. He was strutting happy
down some neon sidewalk, disco stepping
in the bright lights, a night out, a few beers
with a few of the guys, harmless escapism.

Viola thoughtfully picked a ripe pear.
Perhaps Orsino was not the right type.

III :: Viola’s fear

Orsino sat and played a twelve bar blues,
sadly fingering the three chords until
the eastern sky brightened with the hues
of morning. He went to work against his will,

driven by numbers he could not escape,
juggling abstract hoards of silver and gold
for another man. So he shifted shape
and as Tiger stalked out into the cold.

Viola’s garden was still slightly damp
with the remnants of that morning’s heavy dew.
She went walking behind the army camp,
high in the mountains where the black crows flew.

She heard a twig snap, footsteps far too near.
Please sir, put up your sword, with trembling fear.

IV :: Viola’s Scorn

On the mountain path face to face they stood
Confronted. You gave me such a beastly
Fright, creeping up behind me through the wood
Like that, Viola said. These pines priestly

Function can serve, witness that I you wed,
Conjoining our bodies our minds as one.
Sweet pine leaves will be our nuptial bed,
Fragrant beneath us the ceremony done.

Viola frowned down at the little man,
Confused by his boldness. In the pines the crows
Cackled their laughter, not the marriage banns
That he had hoped. At least accept this rose.

I find, I confess, finally Viola spoke,
Your conjugal dreams are just a joke.

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The poems are my own and the photograph was taken by my wife earlier this week. You can find more of my poems, and posts about travelling in China , here: @richardjuckes .

Thank you for reading.