I was perusing this massive stack of papers I have at my desk (actually, I've been going through it for a few weeks now, bit by bit), when I came across the collection of poetry that I set aside for 'digitization' at some point in the murky future. I absentmindedly started browsing, and decided that I had some time to type some of it up.
Piece after piece fell before my keyboard (some of it horrible, some not half-bad), and before long I came across something I wrote last year. As is so often the case with me, I looked at it, and said 'Well, it's got potential.' And then it hit me, all in a flash, and I started to meddle. So, after beginning this poem a year less two days ago, I present to you "Sonnet."
Syllabic poetics, couplets of rhyme
Rhythmic stanzas, and fourteen measured lines.
One section of eight, another of six,
An intro, a middle, and rhyme that sticks.
These things are sonnets, and historical:
Shakespeare, Petrarch, Spenser methodical,
Tried to romance with kisses and word sweets.
Long they won women, or wooed them at least;
But they too have been mocked, e'en criticized
For subjects not real, but idealized.
Poets call them high, elevated form
Which kills many good sheets, crumpled and torn.
Difficult to write, a strain on the mind
And as to women, no more do they bind.
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