I Have Never Written A Sonnet

This is a very old piece, and the title is certainly no longer accurate. Although I think the sentiment now, a bit naive, I still like some of the images and the wordplay contained therein.


I have never written a sonnet.
Although I’ve often lain awake at night
Trying to think in iambic pentameter,
I keep tripping over my own anapestic feet;
Not like the old masters,
Whose perfectly balanced lines
Never sounded forced, or contrived.
There are times when I am pleased with my attempts
At verse. But when I read them to myself,
They sound much more like prose,
Not very disciplined.
Perhaps each poem should be a Gethsemene of effort,
Sweating blood in order to get the message across.
And I need to suffer more, feel more pain.
Nothing alive is born without pain.
Maybe, when I finally write a sonnet,
Finally piece together fourteen lines
In perfect Iambic,
I’ll carve it in stone on the side of a mountain.
It will be beautiful, profound,
Pain dipped in honey
And served on wry bread.
Then having proved myself to myself,
If not to anyone else,
Maybe I’ll have the courage
To chisel my name underneath.