Tuesday, January 25, 2011


Often, pre-dawn mornings, when I’d muse
Out from the dim Mysterium came clues,
Most usually in rhyme, that set my pen
Transcribing on my tablet what would then
Develop into iambs on the line,
Pentameters inclined toward a design
That usually assumed a sonnet’s form,
Although sometimes diverging from the norm.

For instance, note the rhyme scheme of this one:
A-B-A-B it’s not, as Shakespeare made,
Nor yet A-B-B-A, as Spenser’s done;
Instead, it’s shaped of couplets on parade,
Marching their steadfast way to where the page
Runs out of lines, and I walk off the stage.