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xaaraI was in poetry class on Wednesday, and we were listening to several of my classmates present what they'd written for the day. About halfway through, my professor raised his hand to cut off whoever was speaking and said, "No more rhyming. You guys are rhyming, and it's killing your poems. You have no idea about how to work a rhythm into your rhyme--rhyme is only a part of rhythm. So until one of you can show me that you've mastered at least one kind of rhythm that makes sense, you're not rhyming for this class." (Have I mentioned how much I love the fact that my professor never neglects to get straight to the point?)
But anyway, I took this to be a challenge to demonstrate understanding of rhythm--how better to show it than to write something in iambic pentameter? Namely, a sonnet?
So I did some research on the form, read about four million of Shakespeare's, and decided I didn't like his rhyme scheme. Digging a little further into the variations on the sonnet, I discovered the Petrarchan Sonnet, a form with an octet that rhymes ABBAABBA followed by a sextet that rhymes XYZXYZ. I'd found my calling.
Of course, that was all way before I discovered just how much of a pain sonnets are to write. I mean, they look all nice and innocent, sitting there with their fourteen lines and little declarations of love. But woah are they hard to write if you really want to get honest iambs without any of those little cheating apostrophes and fake accents. I sat down to write the first one, a sort of experiment, and ended up concentrating on it so hard that almost two and a half hours passed before I reemerged into reality. It ended up fairly well for a first effort, but I wasn't satisfied with it, so I ate a handful of Wheat Thins and sat down for another long session of gritting my teeth and rearranging accents. The result, in a rough-draft form, with an entirely sub-par fourth line:
Astonishingly Witty Title to be Inserted Here
I’ve never been a poet true to heart;
My words too often falter, flag, and fail.
I try to sing my love to no avail:
My verses are not erudite or smart.
And often, when I’ve found the nerve to start,
My praise falls flat, my interest starts to tail
As I’m not Shakespeare; faced with him I pale
And my poor phrases cannot count as art.
But yet I always manage to enjoy
Another round with paper, pen, and ink
Resulting in another lot of fluff.
I give you sonnets brimming with my joy
(I cannot fathom why--what you must think!)
But then we kiss, and that’s excuse enough.
Take that, professor!
But anyway, I took this to be a challenge to demonstrate understanding of rhythm--how better to show it than to write something in iambic pentameter? Namely, a sonnet?
So I did some research on the form, read about four million of Shakespeare's, and decided I didn't like his rhyme scheme. Digging a little further into the variations on the sonnet, I discovered the Petrarchan Sonnet, a form with an octet that rhymes ABBAABBA followed by a sextet that rhymes XYZXYZ. I'd found my calling.
Of course, that was all way before I discovered just how much of a pain sonnets are to write. I mean, they look all nice and innocent, sitting there with their fourteen lines and little declarations of love. But woah are they hard to write if you really want to get honest iambs without any of those little cheating apostrophes and fake accents. I sat down to write the first one, a sort of experiment, and ended up concentrating on it so hard that almost two and a half hours passed before I reemerged into reality. It ended up fairly well for a first effort, but I wasn't satisfied with it, so I ate a handful of Wheat Thins and sat down for another long session of gritting my teeth and rearranging accents. The result, in a rough-draft form, with an entirely sub-par fourth line:
Astonishingly Witty Title to be Inserted Here
I’ve never been a poet true to heart;
My words too often falter, flag, and fail.
I try to sing my love to no avail:
My verses are not erudite or smart.
And often, when I’ve found the nerve to start,
My praise falls flat, my interest starts to tail
As I’m not Shakespeare; faced with him I pale
And my poor phrases cannot count as art.
But yet I always manage to enjoy
Another round with paper, pen, and ink
Resulting in another lot of fluff.
I give you sonnets brimming with my joy
(I cannot fathom why--what you must think!)
But then we kiss, and that’s excuse enough.
Take that, professor!
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(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-20 05:29 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-20 09:22 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-21 11:49 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-02-21 06:35 pm (UTC)I like the poem a lot, but it does need a snappy title. I like that you used a variation on the standard Shakespearian sonnets. Keep up the good work!