Sunday, December 22, 2013

NEMEROV 2014 #12


    There’s magic in the web a sonnet weaves
    As measured out in five iambic feet,
    An implement by which the poet conceives
    Unthought-of subject matter, beat by beat.

    Ironically, the more confined he feels,
    The more imagination’s then compelled
    To wrack his brain until the right word steals
    Into his view, and a new notion’s spelled.

    The less one starts with matter preconceived,
    The more the likelihood of being surprised
    By something unexpectedly retrieved
    Or, in the nick of time, just realized.

         This magic carpet sonnet flies to lands
         Unknown, by means no science understands.