THE AMATEUR POET


I write this sonnet not for gain or fame,
To make a reputation or get rich,
But simply as a hobby and a game
That satisfies a keen aesthetic itch.

The urge that prompts my idle pen to move
And leap from syllable to syllable
Iambically, and fit into its groove
Each ringing rhyme, until each quatrain’s full,

That urge is eager curiosity
And wonder at this form’s intrinsic art
To see how its complex machinery
Reveals it has not only brain but heart.

I love to ride its rhythms and its rhymes
Then rein it in, just as the last beat chimes.


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