Sonnet 1

I'm wondering. In what voice shall I launch

this contemplated hundred sonnets, this pell-mell

sequence (more like Frank O'Hara's Lunch

than anything by Petrarch, Keats, or Lowell)?


Too much! These rhymed pentameters: fourteen

a day each morning for three months!

Folly, to drudge out dutifully written

lines that crouch and limp in a hobbling dance.


If I were Mallarmé, I'd take my time

and give the world the whitest swan of winter.

But I'm too buzzed on 3 am caffeine


to offer more than this off-kilter rhyme,

woodwork with beams that any blow could splinter,

structure that even the slightest breeze could lean. 



Poetry by Uncle Meridian The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 63 times
Written on 2023-02-12 at 04:19

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Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
I don't know. This seems pretty sturdy to me, especially the concluding tercets.


by Uncle Meridian