desayunoencama posted a link to an essay on sonnets, referring to my recent efflorescence of the damn things.

So, of course, I had to comment – and managed this at something like the normal speed of a Facebook comment, which is by way of an apology…

It’s like this; never knowing what to say
Struggling to bring words out of dark to day
And structure is the ladder that we climb
Hefting ideas that need to find their time

Like bears that licked their cubs from formless mass
there is the chin, the paw, the spine, the ass
– which never happened. Aristotle said
it did, which was enough to give it cred.

Thoughts need a sheepdog or they scatter far
from where you want them. Sometimes in a car
you think of one tight line, or on a bus.
You need to pull it tighter still and thus

we use the sonnet. It’s a poet’s friend
it starts. it has a middle, then an end…


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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7 Responses to

  1. ffutures says:

    That’s amazing for an impromptu effort. Like it.

  2. desperance says:

    I think you should cut the last two words… *runs away giggling*

  3. crowleycrow says:

    Reminds me of some of Tom Disch’s self referential poems, particularly the ending.

  4. finopalomino says:

    I love your sonnets for Abi and this one. But I am wondering if there is a reason for your choice of couplets throughout.

  5. debg says:

    As you know, I love this.

  6. papersky says:


    There’s a purpose for metre and rhyme
    There’s a time for a chapter and verse
    There are worse things than cats sat on mats
    On the hat of the flat universe.

    There’s a moment for mentioning June
    (And the moon that must always complete her)
    It’s much neater when love rhymes above
    And you don’t have to shove out of metre.

    When you set out to rhyme with a reason
    And the seasoning word comes to you,
    The position it lies in ‘s what makes the word wise ‘n’,
    Emphasizing it, makes it seem true.

    Whatever your thoughts as you make rhyme upon it,
    At the end of a sonnet, you’re on it.

  7. steepholm says:

    Very nice! The sonnet is poetry’s whale-bone corset – “turning the accomplishment of many beers/ Into an hour-glass.”

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