Sonnet: My Poetic Evolution
From simple Rhymes that Kinder-gardens teach,
And little songs that children love to sing,
I worked my way, up to what Poets reach,
And tried to soar the Skies with my own Wing!
And then I came to know what metre was;
And Rhythm melody of words and sounds;
And soon I was some kind of Poetic-Boss;
And tried my skill of words in newer grounds!
The old was gold but people wanted new;
I had to write 'free verses' now and then;
My Sonnets sprung with speed and divine hue;
My Wings were strong enough to reach Heaven!
Believe-it-or-not, I'm World's Sonnet-King!
Each Sonnet was just a ten- minute thing!
poem by John Celes
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Related quotes
Sonnet- Sonnet Needs Rhymes
Can you a Sonnet write without its rhyme?
Now people want the modern verse that's free;
As ideas get stuck and cramped with time,
A Sonnet's like leafless branches of tree!
A Sonnet's great for men who rhyme too well;
Its beauty lives in metre, rhythm, rhyme;
Yet, it can never run into 'pel-mel';
The sonneteer can write in any clime.
Why abhor rhymes and not a Sonnet write?
Each genre has its rules to comply with;
Why sleep all day and stay awake all night?
Rhyme-play is done by Kindergarden kith!
Why ridicule something you can't do well,
Much things are done by practice, Sonnets tell.
poem by John Celes
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Wife to Be (Petrarchan Sonnet)
I stroll along a fragrant country lane
With honeysuckle perfume on the air -
And feathered crooner's warble to revere -
Then cross a golden sea of flowing grain
In empathy - it seems to sense my pain
Of knowing all was done with my affair -
Her empty meaning now the solitaire
She cast away - betrothment all in vain.
But oceans team with many fish to catch
So I must up and hoist another sail
And seek the one that really waits for me,
For soon auspicious breezes will prevail
In guiding forth to find a truer match:
The one to take my hand as wife to be.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
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poem by Mark R Slaughter
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Sonnet: Less of the Different?
(after Ashbery)
A sonnet's 'just more of the same'? Uh, no.
It's rather like less of the different.
There is no formula involved, you know.
True, syllables and lines and rhymes get spent
At predetermined intervals: mirage
Of order. Inside, sonnets are a mess
Of words, a slew of syntax, a barrage
Linguistically set off; are nonetheless
Provisionally impish-and as free
As freest verse to chat up any ear
Or signal any eye. The form, you see,
Is just a well mapped route from which to veer.
A sonnet is a disobedience
Of sounds, a flaunt of form, a tease of sense.
Hans Ostrom
poem by Hans Ostrom
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The Torture Will Be Sonnet-Drip
'Aha! Game's afoot, Wats, ole boy, ole pal.
What's this? Words on the people-page,
which had no use for them?
Agog! Magog! Then why did readers
read that rubharb? Aha! Googa! '
Puff, puff, shuffle of schematic rhyme,
time, chime, not fine, and definitely
sublime, went off the balconey, haughtily.
'Sonnets' upon us! Run from the dulldom!
Ten speed! Always the ten speed! Where's
the racer with fresh motion, ignoring
the notion 'sonnets' sacred cow must
be fed with musty, rancid, green-globby
fungus of yesterday's literary world? ' '
'Wats, here's the plan, the ruse, the
gag for the 'in a literary rut' writers....
in the dungeon with them all!
And, slowly....so slowly....drip words
of the 'sacred cow' upon their forehead.
Sonnet-torture them all! Which sonnet writer?
Shakespeare, Petrarch, Spenser....all
the ones who statically stay the same
for all time! And....are....worshipped.'
poem by Elysabeth Faslund
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First sonnet
These words, they just wont come out of my head.
They stay deep down inside, where i can't reach.
I feel as if my mind has now gone dead.
These thoughts, i just cant hold, i want to screech!
You want me to write you a just sonnet,
but i cant think of what to say to you.
All i can think of is the word bonnet,
because its the only rhyme i can do.
if you want a better sonnet than this.
Then so help me, cause i don't have a clue.
do you think of my sonnet as amiss?
or are these thoughts down in my head adieu?
Will these ideas in my mind now leave?
So then i ask when will i be relieved?
poem by Brianna Perreira
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If could in words
If in words I could,
I’d use them to describe heaven’s gate.
And how I crossed them with you last night.
If in words I could,
I’d sing to the love you brought
To my speechless, fluttering heart.
If in words I could,
I’d write the deepest sonnet,
Proving once and for all my love.
But I cannot with poor words,
So I will use my every strength
To prove my adoration til
To death my life succumbs.
poem by Hal Caufield
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Sonnet On A Star
If I could write a sonnet
on a star
Then bottle it and
toss it to the sea
Would it travel
to the corners of the Earth,
And echo there
the love I hold for thee? If I could write a sonnet
on the moon
Then bottle it and
toss it to the winds
Would it find your heart
So you may briefly know,
Where your love ends
Is where my love begins? If I could write a sonnet
on the sun
Then bottle it and
toss it throughout time
Would someone from a distant galaxy
Find no greater love
Than that was mine Yet, I cannot write a sonnet
on a star,
Nor moon, nor even on
the blazing sun,
Nor bottle words to send them
Where you are
Nor coerce our separate hearts
To beat as one And so my darling
You will never hear
The humble words of love
I wrote for thee
They remain encrypted,
tightly sealed
And yet they travel
on eternally
poem by Tamara Beryl Latham
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The Poet And The Baby
How's a man to write a sonnet, can you tell,--
How's he going to weave the dim, poetic spell,--
When a-toddling on the floor
Is the muse he must adore,
And this muse he loves, not wisely, but too well?
Now, to write a sonnet, every one allows,
One must always be as quiet as a mouse;
But to write one seems to me
Quite superfluous to be,
When you 've got a little sonnet in the house.
Just a dainty little poem, true and fine,
That is full of love and life in every line,
Earnest, delicate, and sweet,
Altogether so complete
That I wonder what's the use of writing mine.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Thomas Bailey Aldrich
I
BIRTHDAY VERSES
Dear Aldrich, now November's mellow days
Have brought another Festa round to you,
You can't refuse a loving-cup of praise
From friends the fleeting years have bound to you.
Here come your Marjorie Daw, your dear Bad Boy,
Prudence, and Judith the Bethulian,
And many more, to wish you birthday joy,
And sunny hours, and sky caerulean!
Your children all, they hurry to your den,
With wreaths of honour they have won for you,
To merry-make your threescore years and ten.
You, old? Why, life has just begun for you!
There's many a reader whom your silver songs
And crystal stories cheer in loneliness.
What though the newer writers come in throngs?
You're sure to keep your charm of only-ness.
You do your work with careful, loving touch, --
An artist to the very core of you, --
You know the magic spell of "not-too-much ":
We read, -- and wish that there was more of you.
And more there is: for while we love your books
Because their subtle skill is part of you;
We love you better, for our friendship looks
Behind them to the human heart of you.
November 24, 1906.
II
MEMORIAL SONNET
THIS is the house where little Aldrich read
The early pages of Life's wonder-book:
With boyish pleasure, in this ingle-nook
He watched the drift-wood fire of Fancy spread
Bright colours on the pictures, blue and red:
Boy-like he skipped the longer words, and took
His happy way, with searching, dreamful look
Among the deeper things more simply said.
Then, came his turn to write: and still the flame
Of Fancy played through all the tales he told,
And still he won the laurelled poet's fame
With simple words wrought into rhymes of gold.
Look, here's the face to which this house is frame, --
A man too wise to let his heart grow old!
poem by Henry Van Dyke
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Sonnets Are Full Of Love
Sonnets are full of love, and this my tome
Has many sonnets: so here now shall be
One sonnet more, a love sonnet, from me
To her whose heart is my heart's quiet home,
To my first Love, my Mother, on whose knee
I learnt love-lore that is not troublesome;
Whose service is my special dignity,
And she my loadstare while I go and come
And so because you love me, and because
I love you, Mother, I have woven a wreath
Of rhymes wherewith to crown your honoured name:
In you not fourscore years can dim the flame
Of love, whose blessed glow transcends the laws
Of time and change and mortal life and death.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Don't Tell THe World! (Sonnet)
This Sonnet is in the popular Petrarchan Form
I behold thy love as beautiful thing,
In my wrecked heart, a pleasure garden,
Thy revered love, a blooming Eden.
A daisy tuft seasoned by bright spring,
Surging in moments that defeats waiting,
I behold thy words as a jeweled crown,
On my worn pages of despicable frown.
And thy memory feeds my mind dying,
Daring couple disclose, but don’t you tell,
About memoirs many encased and kept,
Say not thy chronicle, sweet as daisy smell,
Buried, not unseen to thy eyes except
Reveal not, the guarded stash of our love,
Lest a rational world desires to know! ! !
IA NOTE: For those who find the format unfitting to a sonnet!
(Sonnet
only 14 lines long— and has a firmly fixed form. The sonnet works best for expressing strong emotion or intense feeling, firm purpose, or great seriousness. This form works best if you want to focus attention on a single thing—a particular idea, situation, emotion, problem, observation, etc. —the sonnet gets to its point quickly and efficiently, with beauty and charm of form or expression.
The Shakespearean (or English) sonnet and the Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet are the two most prevalent versions of this form today.
A Shakespearean sonnet or English sonnet is written in one stanza composed of three rhymed quatrains (each making one point in a three-step argument) , followed by a rhyming couplet that summarizes the argument
A Petrarchan sonnet or Italian sonnet is composed of an octet followed by a sestet with a variable rhyme scheme. The octet presents the poem’s theme or problem, while the sestet offers a change or a resolution. In its traditional form, this sonnet never ends in a couplet.
Robert Frost was popular at Petrarchan form of sonnets.
sonnet’s formal requirements (14 lines of iambic pentameter with a specific rhyme scheme) , method (a strong focus on one subject) , and goals (persuasion, surprise, balance) ,
Ref: www.poetry.com/techniques/form of poetic expressions.
Thank You
poem by Seema Aarella
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My loves sonnet
My loves sonnet
~
My love is an unwritten sonnet
an ode to the greatest beauty
which sparks the soul into a song
and the heart a merry dance
which brings to life many a dream
such joy I now find in me
happy my soul thanks to love
that the world should hear
and share in such sweetness
the rich melody of this sonnet
still remains unwritten
but this love, such love
inspires all creation to thought
how can such beauty
be captured in words alone
to eternity I look and beyond
to read my unwritten love
is to live and watch over it
poem by Matthew Holloway
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Sonnet Cakes
Sonnet Cakes
Catch a passing flock of words
Put them in a pan
To make a happy sonnet
For your favourite man.
Add a pinch of rhythm
A spoonful of rhyme
Pop them in the oven
Then wait some time
Check if they are burning
Consult with your muse
About variety in flavours,
In structure, different views.
Jolly sonnet cakes for tea
Some for you and some for me.
poem by Irene C S ClarkHogg
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More Words
Sometimes words reach out
to help heal wounds.
Sometimes words reach out
just to claw at a feeble soul.
Sometimes words reach out
to seek help.
Sometimes words reach out
to bring life to idleness.
Sometimes words reach out
to expose a lie.
Sometimes words reach out
to undress from its truth.
Sometimes words reach out
for it needs to be spoken.
poem by Janine Alyssa Navarro
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Neater meter for Mr Earley
Neater meter?
I have to write a sonnet in free verse.
I must stick to Iambic pentameter.
A meter that I do not often use.
Pentameter is my more usual style.
A Sapphic meter would be so much worse.
I am more comfortable with the latter.
I find that some odd metres can confuse
a simple rhymester like me for a while.
I’m quite convinced that pentameter
makes my presentations appear neater.
It may be that you think I am obtuse
and that my simple verses make you smile.
You are entitled to your point of view.
Naturally I won’t agree with you!
11-Apr-08
Free verse sonnet
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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In Praise of a Sonnet
(this is not a true sonnet)
A sonnet, in classical form a charm
soft as sun dawn, it wakens spirit love
calling you, wanting you, it takes your arm
and whisks you away on wings of a dove.
There it holds you with its perfect meter
lullabying with it’s iambic tone.
Nothing does compare or could be sweeter
than the dance of love as poets have shown.
So take my hand and let us dance today
with these magic words penned so long ago.
We shall taste them, taste them without delay,
so succulent it makes our souls to glow.
A sonnet, lovingly given… hold tight
As dawn’s first light makes your spirit take flight.
Evolution
Long, long ago as poets know.
A sonnet was a little song
without rules you had to follow.
There was no way you could go wrong.
Petrarch invented a fixed form
and then Will Shakespeare altered it.
Both are accepted as the norm
although they vary quite a bit.
Since Will most poets had a try
to write a sonnet in their way.
The hide bound purists can't deny
there’s many sonnet forms today.
Like any art fine poetry
evolves and improves constantly.
28-Nov-08
http: // blog.myspace.com.poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Fourteen Lines
Old poets, torturing their thoughts to rhyme,
their lovely English verse to end-words tied,
oft found just cause to moan of 'envious Time',
and seek immortal fame in 'Time defied';
for rhymesters, it is ever June, when moon
shines on their corn; for moralists, base love
may find in Plato reason to attune
and lift their Muse to world on world above -
and then, there's Shakespeare: from whose boundless art
flows liquid gold; whose words bring heaven to earth,
to sing love's beauty; melt the frozen heart,
make men to cry with joy; gods, weep with mirth:
a sonnet's span can bring one to oneself;
in fourteen lines, bequeath us heaven's wealth.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Anti-Sonnet
They say a sonnet must be all about
Romance, and swing in rhyme and rhythm, but
I shall try to defy them and slam shut
The door on love, as I rant loud and shout
That I’m not interested in such things
As tenderness, soft speech, platitudes, that
Pander to their whims. Shall I fall down flat
As my attempt to write no ode that sings
Of soppiness will fail? I shall plough on
To put my case that I’m not going where
You want me. To put the finger on it,
This anti-sonnet is a love-less one:
Don’t goad me to be goo-ey, I don’t care
I shall not mention love in this sonnet.
poem by C. Richard Miles
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Operatic omelette
I could write a sonnet
about what I just ate.
My lady's beautiful
omelette.
I may try operatic,
p'raps poetic,
that music of taste,
an omelette in travel
going from north to south
via my mouth.
No omelette going to waste,
a thing to revel,
my lady's a devil
when cooking that omeletting
thing.
So play it again
sonnet, operatic,
cooking poetic.
So pan out again,
do you ken.
poem by George BernardBloodyShaw
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