Sonnet To The Sonnet

Hail, sonnet, fourteen lines of joy intense!

     Ten beats per line, no more, no less, a kind

     Of catch-as-catch-can, go-as-you-please grind;

A step-and-go-fetch-it in every sense,

Uneven, irregular, awkward dense;

     Held up by Moguls of the classic pen

     As something great, unique, artistic when

Your usage should be cited an offense.

Away with you, I cannot be thus tied,

     For life is hard enough e’en now, ‘tis true,

     Without the bother of a whack at you,

Whom now I drop and henceforth cast aside.

     Your “form” may be poetic, full of grace,

     But you’re too much for me to quite embrace.

Dec. 16, ‘04