Poeisis
No sonnet you
write can ever be perfect because
No words are
ever tailored to just the right length
And the sound of
your breath never follows the laws
Exactly as the
thought requires; as for sighs and strength,
No more than
size in a measure of time or tempo,
And, worst of
all, when your heart skips a beat, defeat
Is inevitable.
Better far is the well-framed conceit,
With its
ingenious wit and casual flow, mellow
As the breeze soughing
in the darkness, winsome and soft,
While the nymph
nimbly struts down the wind,
Her hair
billowing, her ankles held aloft
By the very
passion you sought to hide when you sinned.
As in a dream,
as in a mirage, or in rhymes
You do not hear,
like very distant chimes.
No comments:
Post a Comment