The Jonathan Sonnet

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thejonathanfeed — Sun, 27 May 2012 21:00:34 -0700

Oceans Apart

thejonathanfeed — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 12:33:28 -0800

The oceans that separate you and me are vast,
Realist call it long-distance; while we know it’s easy,
Seconds, Minutes, Hours, Days, and Months slay us,
But we know better; we never feel alone,
You offered to move but I pleaded for you to stay,
Embraces at Charles de Gaulle are glorious,
    far more glorious than those who do it vainly.
I can’t take my eyes off of you,
I can’t stop saying how much I love you.
A moment at the café, a moment under the Tour Eiffel,
    a moment with your friends,
Moments that waste our ticking time together,
Nothing is the same without everything being about us.
A walk to the park, below summer’s sun,
Walking along the packed park, we display affection for pride’s sake.
Time to spend, to spend our time in mirth,
    the time that time apart owes us should be used selfishly.
You read Hemingway while I ponder on Camus and his Stranger,
We share fetid cheese; creamy smoothness, a delicious bitter spread
    On torn bread that sheds crispy flakes.
Sipping old wine is far more tasteful in old peach jars,
    not a care in our world.
We lie closely, witnessing the sunset we usually see separately,
The peace that is the stream of the Seine is lovely with you.
This is real and will become the images we rely on,
    when we are oceans apart.

Jonathan G. Flores, Dec 2011

Dec 2 2011

thejonathanfeed — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 22:46:00 -0800

I’m currently writing a poem titled “Oceans Apart” and can’t wait to publish it for all of you to read.

-Jonathan

The Unpurposed & Undriven Life.

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 18:43:07 -0800

In the light of a new beginning, many of us search darkness not knowing our future evils. The desire within consumes our sense of conscience decisions and blinds us to the point of self-destruction. This destruction doesn’t end at the demise of one’s soul, it ends when the person is seen for the pity they were while soulful.

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thejonathanfeed — Fri, 19 Aug 2011 15:20:12 -0700

The Ulysses Voltas...A Success!

thejonathanfeed — Thu, 26 May 2011 00:00:00 -0700

My video has now been shown in class and will be posted for the poetry presentation I will be having in a week. Other students in class said that the video did not do the book justice and that I attempted to rhyme too much towards the middle of it. For one, I retorted by saying that no poem could ever do Ulysses the justice it deserves. For such a masterpiece, Joyce would spit on my project and I would be fine with that. Secondly, the poem alone took me over 5 hours to write because I flipped through 800 pages to extract the scenes I liked the most for the poem’s couplets.

I loved doing the project and turning it to a video took me an entire sleepless night for which I found rewarding when I finished it.

I sent the YouTube link to another English professor who is Irish and in whose class we are studying Ulysses. He loved it and said:

Jonathan: Cool! I love the video esp. and you certainly know your _Ulysses_
Can I post it in the Irish class website?

I most certainly gave him permission, and Professor Duffy who I have the utmost respect for, is a literary genius I love and admire.

It is these exact moments in my academic career that encourage me to write more and pushes me to work on challenging things (like poetry).

Sonnet 20

thejonathanfeed — Wed, 25 May 2011 09:48:00 -0700

A woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women’s fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure.

____________________________

Shakespeare [early 17th c.]

Touched

thejonathanfeed — Tue, 24 May 2011 23:51:00 -0700

[A story in 7 parts. ]

_____________________

[Part 1]
He tickles, she tickles
They all tickle,
They slam me down–defenseless
Their bodies on top;
Producing waves of shock
Throughout my body—

_____

[Part 2]
Forcefully, head pushed against the mat,
Cold, blue, and roughness presses against my ear,
Built-up sweat comes rushing down my face,
Salty, hot, impure water touches opened lips.

_____

[Part 3]
Kick, stroke, breathe—flip turn.
No other personal space like this one,
Thoughts flow, come, and go freely,
No way to analyze their expressions,
I am sad. I am happy. I am laughing—
The dry worn out lane lines are barriers,
Keeping them from touching me.

_____

[Part 4]
Splashes and droplets of warm water fly,
Covering every dry spot of the bathroom walls,
Here we bathe; two innocent seven year old boys,
We play submarine and scuba man,
He is more than a friend, a brother to me.
Fingers slide down my goose-bumped skin,
I wonder what game this is.
Who taught him this game I have never played?

_____

[Part 5]
Innocence is stolen; now shame consumes me.
They call me pansy and nickname me Fanny,
Insecurities rise and coolness has declined.
Life has gone by, no one on my side.
In darkness my shames hides,
Pushing all hope and joy aside.

_____

[Part 6]
Wedding bells chime,
I say I do—she says she will,
‘Till death do us part—
The wedding was the best part,
My inability to be touched troubled her;
Shouting, running, crying—she’s gone.

—-

They say intimacy cures marriages,
A lie that has only given me disparage,
Leave me sitting, waiting, wishing.
God, maybe you’ll take care of this?

_____

[Part 7]
Trust no one my head says,
Hugs are electrifying—
love is an old cliché,
Keep your hands to yourself
They used to say,
He never learned this,
His hands were on me,
Innocently, I thought, playing submarine.

—-

Mom tries to hug me,
Dad tries to give me loving kisses,
She wants to snuggle.
My son wants to be carried,
Overwhelming touches –
Why can’t they understand—overwhelming touches.

Music for inspiration…

thejonathanfeed — Tue, 24 May 2011 22:33:00 -0700

Music for inspiration…

"Treason doth never prosper, what’s the reason? For if it prosper, none dare call it treason"

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 23 May 2011 03:04:00 -0700

“

Treason doth never prosper, what’s the reason?

For if it prosper, none dare call it treason

”

- Sir John Harrington {1618}

Prose Poem: "Viennese Dissapointments"

thejonathanfeed — Fri, 20 May 2011 00:00:00 -0700

Five weeks of backpacking necessitates the washing of back-sweated shirts, dirty underwear worn inside and out, grotesque socks that smell like European men in subways. Just another hostel, out we go, in search for the Laundromat nearest by. Wash wash dry dry, how terrible their washing machines are; waiting for one load to be washed in two hours, let’s not think about how long drying will take. They finish early, how did they finish early? Meet us at the hostel! Do you know your way back, of course I do. Small avenues, empty streets, a Sunday afternoon, Austrians taking their day off—but not for Jesus—an excuse to not work. Kraugstrauss, Humbugstrauss, Ubenstrauss, Klingenstrauss. Why do they sound like the other? What is strauss? Avenue, street, drive? Another way to confuse backpackers on Sunday afternoons doing laundry. No way to know but to retrace my steps. Down Kraugstrauss, left on Ink-chestrauss, and right on Kraugstrauss. Half an hour, lost and now decided that I’m walking in circles not taking me back to my nomadic group. Parlez-vous français? NEIN! Habla español? NEIN! Italiano? NEIN! What languages do the Vietnamese speak? Not Vietnamese, Viennese; too worried to focus on languages. Dark thick clouds form above me, the thunder that begins are the clouds having a riot over this. Rain rain rain, a backpack with my passport and itinerary, clothes clothes clothes, what was the point of washing them now. An American! I can tell he’s American, can you show me where this street is. Yes, he lives on that street. Three hours past, back to safety, back to the nomads, back to friends who never realized I was missing. Oh Sweet Vienna, your apple strudels are your only landmark worth re-visiting.

The Ulysses Voltas—recounts of the day June 16th, 1904 in...

thejonathanfeed — Wed, 18 May 2011 10:23:54 -0700

The Ulysses Voltas—recounts of the day June 16th, 1904 in “Ulysses” for Stephen Dedalus Leopold Bloom. The poem is constructed in the Shakespearean sonnet volta, consisting of 10 syllable two-line stanzas.

Enjoy.

The Ulysses Voltas

thejonathanfeed — Wed, 18 May 2011 09:29:45 -0700

Dedalus

Buck, you fool, you judge my Catholic name,

Usurper! Take twopence and key in shame.

Bloom:

A letter for Molly; from her lover,

Tonight, they will ravish our bed covers.

Dedalus:

Thoughts of mother, dead, sadly meander,

Hidden tears come silently soon after.

Bloom:

Reading the penny-weekly in the loo,

Thoughts of her affair wiped away like poo.

Dedalus:

Sandymount Strand, the place to think in French,

No handkerchief; rubbing snot on rock ledge.

Dedalus

Bohemian life in Paris was good,

Youthful ambitions and pretensions stood.

Bloom

Thoughts of a bath now, clean trough of water

This is my body in a womb of warmth water.

Dedalus

Men! Off to Burke’s pub…now stuck in Nighttown?

Brothel girls become hazy thoughts dressed down.

Bloom

Anti-Semitism pollutes Dublin,

Catholics collect tithes, now I’m runnin’.

Dedalus

A piss with Bloom; there goes a shooting star!

Talks of consciousness…now an au revoir.

Bloom

Sprawled bedsheets mark the lover’s bodyprints,

Off to bed speechless, sex odor left hints.

Dedalus

Poems to write, no one to write about,

My life with no one day in and day out.

Challenge: Shakespeare Sonnet + James Joyce

thejonathanfeed — Tue, 17 May 2011 22:24:51 -0700

I am currently working on a poem that will later become a digital poem. The format of the poem is in a Shakespearean sonnet; using only the last two line schemes, or “volta”. The topic of these series of voltas will be focused on James Joyce’s Ulysses. If you have never read a Shakespeare sonnet or anything by James Joyce, picture physics in the form of literature. Challenging and not easily comprehensible.The idea of combining the two ideas came to me this morning during a lecture on “Ulysses” and before then, I had already thought of creating a poem using only the last two line forms of a Shakespearean sonnet.

Sorry Petrarch & Spencer.

Here’s to a long night!

"I like to touch your tattoos in complete Darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of Where they..."

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 16 May 2011 14:26:25 -0700

“I like to touch your tattoos in complete
Darkness, when I can’t see them. I’m sure of
Where they are, know by heart the neat
Lines of lightning pulsing just above
Your nipple, can find, as if by instinct, the blue
Swirls of water on your shoulder where a serpent
Twists, facing a dragon. When I pull you
To me, taking you until we’re spent
And quiet on the sheets, I love to kiss
The pictures in your skin. They’ll last until
You’re seared to ashes; whatever persists
Or turns to pain between us, they will still
Be there. Such permanence is terrifying.
So I touch them in the dark; but touch them, trying.
{Kim Addonizio} -1994-”

- First Poem For You

Random Haiku

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 16 May 2011 11:21:11 -0700

Random Haiku

The Heirloom He Gave Me

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 16 May 2011 10:32:14 -0700

You will wonder why I wear this old watch,
Ask me why I wear it religiously;
The contrast between this one and the lavishly new,
Will confuse your young mind.
But son, little do you know that this heirloom,
Will one day be strapped around your strong wrist.
Like me, you will think of your father and the life he lived,
But I will warn you, not like my father did, like I wished he did,
That the complexities of life will never fully make sense,
However, my best efforts will–with any luck –convince you,
To live life with much joy, love, and contentment.
Do not seek the meaning of life, you will die disappointed;
Rather, seek happiness,
Remember to look down at the watch I gave you,
And ponder on the advice you want your own son to learn.
This watch of mine will not give you hope,
It will show you, through the roller-coaster that is life,
That hope lies in the pains and troubles,
Life will bring.

Peachy

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 16 May 2011 10:08:00 -0700

The excitement that riled up inside me,

Was wasted energy in many degrees,

People admired your good looks,

Admired your humbleness and love for books,

The clothes you wore and car you drove,

Would make anyone want to dote,

And so you became the model son,

The go-to guy for having fun,

Who I thought I’d want to become.

Now your flaws has me feeling dumb,

Leaves me wondering how much pain,

Your heart has caused like falling rain,

On a joyful, perfect, flawless day.

White Noise

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 16 May 2011 09:32:51 -0700

Click click tap tap

click click Jonathan tap tap Flores

click click Dear Mr. Burns click click
the sounds of the keys sing a lullaby
the tapping of deletion quiets my sighs
click click tap tap here we go
can no longer contain it
click it’s coming tap click click
darkness fades every visible spec of life.
click click what a pleasant white noi—tap tap

Partition Clouds

thejonathanfeed — Mon, 16 May 2011 00:32:18 -0700

I wrote a poem titled “Partition Clouds” but some technical malfunctions occurred and the entire thing was erased/lost. I was frustrated and now do not feel like attempting to rewrite it. I will perhaps write it tomorrow. I guess we can’t depend on micro-blogging to post everything we want published.