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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=460708" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>0244 Trying to write a sonnet</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">It's a bit like a trip in a hot air balloon -<br>the hot air of thousands of years of<br>poets poetizing; all trying to float a little higher than the everyday, <br>just a little lower than the angels -<br>whoops, there's four lines gone already...</div><div style="margin:10px 0">so, the first four lines or so say<br>where you're taking this trip from, hoping<br>to arrive somewhere quite new and unexpected<br>after fourteen lines, otherwise<br>why take the trip at all? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">so, fire up the burner of ambition, whatever, <br>and we're into the second four lines now; <br>floating in an easy, silent, gently breeze-blown world, <br>a poet's paradise, <br>where the mind is stilled, the beauty of the landscape<br>almost beyond words (ha!) : all perspectives on the world<br>altered; but do we know now where we're heading? <br>It's a cool way of experiencing altered state<br>without illegal substances. Take out the notebook, <br>try to describe it, just in case<br>someone reads it; at least it might<br>encourage them to take the trip themself.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now we're into the last six lines<br>which, the pundits say, should introduce<br>some new insight, some viewpoint on the world; <br>you've had your chance; has the trip been worthwhile? <br>the balloon's gone higher, the landscape stretches out, <br>greener than a politician's promise...<br>Floating above the green fields, the concrete and the smog, <br>the unexpected words from the ground heard crystal clear -<br>have new thoughts, new visions, come, in this poet's paradise? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">And now so soon, the final couplet - which the pundits of today<br>condemn as the valueless whistling in the dark, <br>the false claim to cultural certainties -<br>so beware: take all your humility in hand like<br>a doffed Elizabethan cap: will that final couplet be<br>the clunk-click of the safety belt's banality? The<br>front-door clack of Alexander Pope's front door, <br>before the scrape of sharpened pen, the mellow smell<br>of candlelight on paper that will ring the world<br>like thought-fired, savage Georgian hot-air balloon? <br>Or the clang of oven door in Belsen, Dachau, Buchenwald? </div><div style="margin:10px 0">For the poet, just fourteen lines: heaven and earth, <br>truth and lies, life and death, Icarus 's fate, <br>all these, for his few hours, depend upon it; <br>but I digress; I should have writ a sonnet..</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Michael+Shepherd">Michael Shepherd</a><div class=q>
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the hot air of thousands of years of
poets poetizing; all trying to float a little higher than the everyday, 
just a little lower than the angels -
whoops, there's four lines gone already...

so, the f..."></div>
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