A Difference in Egos
I played the role of your hillside, rolling from
lowing seas. I played the role of mossless stone,
as free as you seemed to be. I played a bone
that was not a rib, no Eve from Kingdom come,
aping what I thought you wanted, and then some.
I played me like a viola, whose braised tone
might fit your style. Even polished up a moan–
a true enough moan – but with consonant hum.
But none of me sufficed. Not my hill nor cry–
yes, I cried too–true oceans of ill-toned tilt–
you viewed that bit as an act, a ploy, a lie.
And then I could play no more, the infused lilt
leaving me as you would, for I could not ply
your rolling ways in such salt-plowed earth, bound silt.
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Here’s a rather whiney draft sonnet for Kerry O’Connor’s wonderful sonnet challenge on With Real Toads. Kerry inspires with the example of two July-born sonneteers, Petrarch and Neruda. This was a bit of an experiment for me — no, I couldn’t get sensual, cool and quirkily profound like Neruda –but I went for an eleven syllable line which was apparently typical of Petrarch, and did not even try to think of iambic pentameter. See Kerry’s article for more on these remarkable poets.
I am also linking this to dverse poets pub open link night, hosted today by the very energetic Bjorn Rudberg.
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