The first line has ten syllables.
It doesn't rhyme with this one, but it rhymes
In quiet desperation with the next.
It's iambic, too; one foot in front of the other,
Never stressing, then stressing, then a turn --
A thirteenth-century, fourteen-lined two-step
Ending with a couplet.
Conceived in reverse, there's my grave,
A crowd crying because they have to leave,
Bent into a twisted form, then
Upright, engaged, happy, a little thing, then silence --
Twisting into a romantic, explosive couplet
Not long after.
2 comments:
You finally enticed me to comment by your ridiculous or wildly unsuccessful sonnet. You wish you had never embarked nor engaged your modern self to write an entire year's worth of sonnets, daily a fresh gem? Hence retaliate by joining the idiots and ageless critics damning it?
I am reading Wordsworth, but only Mains' selection, and you might see his two sonnets in defense of this form and his choice in utilizing it. I'll leave you to find them, if you are interested.
Either way, this is NOT a sonnet, but a diatribe of sorts against the form. As I have read few criticisms against it, you are opening my eyes to that ugly realm.
Have at it, but please cease to sully its "most exquisite" status by posting in the space that was (by the title of this blog) seemingly reserved for the item itself. "Day 112" is NOT a sonnet.
Okay then, I am rethinking. This blog indeed has "some" sonnets but not all posts are such.
Lovely discussion on the form I love and adhere to so determinedly with good points regarding it, er, I mean, explaining a bit of it, I guess.
And since we supposedly are "friends" you'll let me be so bold, with just a slap on the hand if you don't approve, right?
I hope all is well with you! Thanks for your insights and thoughts. This poem represents a continuation of my experimentation, prompted in great part by my contemplation of line breaks and their utility within sonnets. I'm unsure if this is condemnation or praise, given the third stanza, although it is a commentary on the strictures of form as canvas, and continues my contemplation of when a thing is a thing, and when a thing is not a thing.
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