Sunday, December 30, 2012


    A poem like a sonnet in set form
    Might seem to keep the poet’s mind constrained;
    Ironically it makes new notions swarm
    As if by supernatural means ordained.

    There’s magic in the web of the son-net:
    The rhythm of the tight iambic line
    Combines with where each line-end rhyme is set
    To weave a spell of mystical design,

    The poet—all the while enthralled, enrapt,
    An instrument of powers beyond his ken
    Revealing how his subject may adapt
    To the exigencies that lead his pen—

        At last is freed from this engaging charm,
        Feeling sweet ecstasy and not alarm.