Wednesday, August 8, 2012


     Well versed in rhyme and meter, he’d proceed
     To turn a sonnet out most every day,
     Giving exigencies of form the lead,
     Surprised to find out what he had to say.

     He praised the magic of this mystic verse
     That urged him to discover in his mind
     What only its contrivance could disburse,
     Miraculously fashioned and designed.

     He therefore rightly would refuse to claim
     Full credit for the poems that came forth:
     The form and he were partners in the game,
     Collaborators in the verse’s worth.

          Platonically, both Form and Mind conspire
          To extricate True Beauty from the mire.