I'm sick as balls. It's two 'til bedtime, and
Surpassing loveliness seems out of sync,
A thought-gear jammed with rhyming words that scanned
So well at first consideration. Ink,
Position, paper, fever-hardened thoughts
All chasing Keats -- his bloody-minded call
That poetry can't tie itself in knots;
It must be born with ease or not at all.
The screen is pregnant -- bits for ink, a blog
For paper, shuffling virtual sheets 'til some
-thing like a poem coughs through. My fingers flog
The keys and medicate a sonnet: numb,
Resentful, lovely only literally:
Each line is dizzy, fierce, and crowned unfairly.
1 comment:
Now that I've attempted to prove I am a live, typing person, la, you poor boy! You got sick too? How awful.
Happily, however, you were able to squeeze out a sonnet in tribute to your misery. When I caught a cold with its necessary fever late last September, I tried unsuccessfully to write during the height of it. Catching one again this past weekend, I dreaded missing a day and was thankful to discover you actually can still write, even with a fever. A tribute to such sufferings I could not try, however. Excellent that you managed it rather successfully.
However, the first sentence has horrible connotations, or I wish my vocabulary had not been degraded to make such ugly sense of your word choice.
Excepting that, excellent imagery as usual in a superb tribute to the misery of sickness and a fever. Impressive.
[Somehow I suspect I have to conjure up a more useful critique for the eratosphere specs but I have to first find something to critique.]
Great job, triumphant, fever and all.
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