November’s the right month for Nemerov,
the letters of his name subsumed within
it’s name. That’s when I send some sonnets off
to his contest I yearly aim to win.
Though once I took a seminar with him
on writing verse, and he approved my skill
more than the others, I hope the interim
of decades since has raised me higher still.
I’ve lately won two other contests, but
no other honor than a Nemerov
will demonstrate at last I’ve made the cut
and end the scorn of those inclined to scoff.
The time I give to writing poetry
may be remembered by posterity.