There's lots of dust above my point of view.
At five foot nine, the shelf-line hides it -- dead
Debris encrusting phony wood -- and through
It all, a sonnet glimpses daylight. Spread
Across the platform, my perspective of
It seems compelling -- worldview stacked on trash,
A pompous metaphor unmoored above
A sidelined chore. It's only dust; mere flash
And transience, erasable with cloth
And easily averted: just look down
To make it vanish. In that dirty swath,
We'll swaddle it, this sonnet-child, its gown
Unfit for public consummation, its
Unchaste intentions sketched as time permits.
2 comments:
Acceptable enough to post. This isn't the worst I've been behind as a percentage of my total project, but I'm forty-five sonnets in the hole, and need to start digging myself out. That means writing meaningless stuff about dusty shelves!
Wow. This is a good one, impressive. The imagery is superb and the discussion proceeds beautifully with ne'er a line out of place, though your pronunciation differs from mine in the "aw" and "ah" endings of "cloth/swath". Fantastic discussion eloquently using metaphors to decry the path created ere now by the masters and the frustration of the flagrant abuses of the form leaving the undetermined to flounder when seeking a certain standard graven indelibly for all before and after to follow or be damned by elsewise.
It seems from the definite measures given to hint at its speaker as well, interestingly. Fun thought, even if untrue.
I enjoyed this very much. A beautiful sonnet and quite a treat.
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