The Modern Sonnet

A sonnet I must write upon the spring,

     A sonnet full of something high and grand,

     Something so high no one can understand;

For naught else save that now is the thing;

So lofty, exalted, and fleet of wing,

     The thing to do each budding time of year

     When nature decks herself in green and sheer,

To cause a million poet fools to sing.

O, yes, it matters not just what it be;

     It may be of the buds, the germs, the slush,

     But in the sonnet from it must be seen;

Fourteen lines, ten stitches, which makes, you see,

     A sonnet true in form tho’ full of gush,

To be sent straightway to a magazine.

Jan. 7, ‘97

Boston Courier,

May 2, ‘97