On The Sonnet

I couldn’t write a sonnet, no matter how
I tried. It’s difficult to chop and fit
my thoughts, my free expression thoughts, right now,
right here, to such a rigid form. My wit
is not the tight–arse type. My lines are full
when I am done, no less, and never end
at some exactly counted syllable.
What’s said is key, not how. It’s just a trend,
this fancy verse, for populists; it’s dropped
as rot in modern poetry—and how
can anybody teach that tightly cropped
and strictly managed words can ever plough
the spoken thought, the blurted crude opines,
and crop the lot to only fourteen lines?

poem

2K3:6

site
copyright

set Hear




this archive is hosted by arts & ego
© 1978–2020 dylan harris