I told Ash I would share my really scrappy sorry excuse for a sonnet. It vaguely leans in the direction of a sonata criterium. Sort of, near enough, close enough, is that good enough. Lazy and stuff. That’s me, through and through. I’m the muse of bards, but not always a bard. I am skald ftrucking with your head and or heart. Whatever. Something. Minstrel Kestrel, no minister abbeys. Lanes and paths, not roads nor ave.
Blah. Eeek eerrr…. umm… yeah. Lucid being, are you pleased now? If a fun exercise this proves to be, then perhaps I will release the remaining 11 poems of 2011 as a sort of anthology..?
Excerpt from poetry journal (February-May 2011).
This week was about sonnets. We had to write a sonnet about any topic at all but it had to conform to the English sonnet arrangement. Agent Smith thought it was funny that I write poems about how much I hate write poetry. But that’s not true, it’s only when I don’t know what to write about, I write about that.
I found this exercise to be so difficult, much more so than haiku week. Iambic pentameter was so difficult but apparently it wasn’t important to write in that way, as long as each line was roughly 10 syllables (mine totally do not equal 10 syllables… 1/7 of the lines meter correctly).
Then to make up for the arduous task of sonnet writing, we got to write some fun concrete poetry.
I feel lame if I start to clap my hands,
Or list out some key words to use
To then place them in equal bands.
A competent poet is my ruse.
I feel rather lost without free verse,
But in typical form I write confession.
After this, my poetry rides in a hearse,
Not in front but in the back, my coffin.
Quatrains and couplets, fourteen lines,
Iambic pentameter, my head implodes.
Rules to poetry are hard to abide,
Somewhat akin to cancerous lymph nodes.
Gather around me to laugh and see
The serious poet I try to be.