Friday, November 8, 2013


       What is the point of choosing to conform
       To the strict pattern of a sonnet’s shape,
       Adhering to this arbitrary norm,
       Which you might very easily escape?

       Be free of measurement and formula,
       Or set your own unique parameters—
       No more de-DA, de-DA, de-DA, de-DA—
       Be done with such an arbitrary curse.

       But then, out goes the baby with the bath;
       The genie in the bottle will have fled;
       You will no longer tread a steady path
       Or feel yourself mysteriously led.

            Ironically, there’s freedom in this form:
            It is not dead—it’s breathing and it’s warm.