Robert Frost once said, "Writing free verse is like playing tennis without the net."
Likewise, T.S. Elliot said, "No verse is free for the man who wants to do a good job."
Now, I don't necessarily agree entirely with either of these statements, as I know and admire many free verse poets, or poets who have used free verse at some point in their careers. (Mostly Victorian poets, however a few specifics include Matthew Arnold, Goethe, Christina Rossetti, and others.)
However, I do realize that there is much truth found in both of these statements. I like to write free verse poetry when I am writing just for myself. I can express what I want, how I want-- the possibilities are endless. That being said, though, I rarely decide to share that poetry with others. It's just not that good.
Today, I decided to tackle the sonnet for three reasons.
1.) I (most often) write poetry in free verse, and because I have such profound respect for both Robert Frost AND T.S. Elliot, I realized that I needed to branch out a little bit and
2.) what better verse is there to practice than a sonnet?? (Here I am using 'better' liberally. I suppose I am meaning it as the most difficult, as that is how I see it; however, you can view it in anyway you like. Actually-- I take that back. It's not like I'm writing an epic or anything... I'll leave that crap to Milton. I don't even LIKE that junk... BUT I do appreciate it. I suppose I have to say that... just so you're not thinking I'm the worst English major that ever walked the face of BYU.)
3.) I have to write a sonnet for my English 251 class anyway, so why not get a little practice?
This sonnet has a Shakespearean rhyme scheme: abab cdcd efef gg, and is in iambic pentameter.
Also, don't try to guess what it's about-- it's slightly embarrassing for me.
(No title-- so I suppose my working title can be 'Duvet.')
Held captive by a missing, plural duvet;
The weight of loneliness seems out of place.
But what can solitude of mine portray
when haunted with that quilted, lost embrace?
It's plural because the one was lost at sea,
while the other stayed ashore just a while;
but once the salted tears arrested me,
the other, too, slept on a sea-trained mile.
An icy bed with sheets tousled and tossed;
My sweaty palms caught in a numbing clasp.
A cold reminder of the ones I've lost;
The warming down that once was in my grasp.
My injured hands try painfully to mend
colorless thread that has since reached its end.
Please, feel free to critique. I obviously need all the help I can get.
Baptism, grandparents, and Marathon Kids
2 months ago