True Structure of the Sonnet Should Be Observ'd by Authors of Genius Who Thus Entitle Their Poem
Ye, whose aspirings court the Muse of lays
'Severest of those orders which belong
Distinct and separate to Delphic song'
Why shun the sonnet's undulating maze?
Or why its name, boast of Petrarcan days,
Assume, its rules disown'd?-whom from the throng
The Muse selects, their ear the charm obeys
Of its full harmony:-they fear to wrong
The sonnet by adorning with a name
Of that distinguisht import, lays, though sweet,
Yet not in magic texture taught to meet
Of that so varied and peculiar frame.
O think, to vindicate its genuine praise
Those it becomes whose lyre a favoring impulse sways.
poem by Capel Lofft
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
ma rriage
marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage
marriage marriage marriage marriage marriage sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet sonnet
sonnet sonnet
sonnet
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Muse Is Free
I swim in the glimmers on the rivers muse
There I muse of love and love muse of me
In muse is ecstasy
my muse is free.
I lay by the brook, the muse's brook
And thirsty, I get up, to get a little drink
When I look, I see, I think
A beautiful Muse and my heart is shook
I dwell in a soul, a soulful muse
And to its harmony my soul withdrew
To the trumpets of muse the song of blue
My soul a muse, I always knew
I smell the odor, of muse's incense
In its torpor my body sleeps in my soul
And I smoke the smoke of muse intense
I laugh at myself amusingly droll
With my muse's nymphs we love in Hellas
Naked and free in the republic
Of beauty and art of love's Bellas
We love to we're entirely love sick.
My muse is free from the Devil's temptation
My Muse is free from God's judgment
My Muse is my only wordly nation
My Muse is a dream, I live, I lament
poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
poem by John Keats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet. If By Dull Rhymes Our English Must Be Chain'd
If by dull rhymes our English must be chain'd,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fetter'd, in spite of pained loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrain'd,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gain'd
By ear industrious, and attention meet:
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
poem by John Keats
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Fourteen beautiful birds on wings
As baker packs thirteen odd eggs to count
To a dozen, a sonneteer fourteen
Sweet lines of praise on thine slender frame mount,
That thine mysterious marvels ne'er lean
Might seem; and when all fourteen fully hatch
Ah, gorgeous chicks to be, ready to fly
In time together in one single batch,
Or in formations only sonnets try.
The eight of them may oft land to face strife,
The six more that follow, in counterpoint,
Resolve and soothe— ah, sonnet's very life,
As volta, shift, sonneteers oft anoint,
Of whose last two, twain wings of a couplet,
Come to sing last short song of the sonnet.
______________________________________ _____________
- Sonnets | 04.11.12 |
poem by Aniruddha Pathak
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Echoes
Late-born and woman-souled I dare not hope,
The freshness of the elder lays, the might
Of manly, modern passion shall alight
Upon my Muse's lips, nor may I cope
(Who veiled and screened by womanhood must grope)
With the world's strong-armed warriors and recite
The dangers, wounds, and triumphs of the fight;
Twanging the full-stringed lyre through all its scope.
But if thou ever in some lake-floored cave
O'erbrowed by rocks, a wild voice wooed and heard,
Answering at once from heaven and earth and wave,
Lending elf-music to thy harshest word,
Misprize thou not these echoes that belong
To one in love with solitude and song.
poem by Emma Lazarus
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Parody Of John Keats 'On The Sonnet
Parody to follow, but first, the real deal sonnet by John Keats,1819...
----------…
John Keats sonnet.....'On the Sonnet'...
If by dull rhymes our English must be chained,
And, like Andromeda, the Sonnet sweet
Fettered, in spite of painéd loveliness;
Let us find out, if we must be constrained,
Sandals more interwoven and complete
To fit the naked foot of poesy;
Let us inspect the lyre, and weigh the stress
Of every chord, and see what may be gained
By ear industrious, and attention meet;
Misers of sound and syllable, no less
Than Midas of his coinage, let us be
Jealous of dead leaves in the bay-wreath crown;
So, if we may not let the Muse be free,
She will be bound with garlands of her own.
----------…
My parody.....'On Rhyme and Money'
If by dull rhyme our fortune's attained,
let us speak, shout, seek, complete with all pain
tomorrow's journey to our bank account.
Ignore that woman chained by wisdom's fount.
Was she not acclaimed in her day and time?
Her eternal beauty bought for a dime
from every passing vendor. How vane!
Her shame, wanting blonde tresses. Brunette's bane!
Forlorn, forsworn, we apply merely base
words, structure, to the poetics of haste.
And, all meaning wanting, we write cheap
nonsensical verse, all rhyming replete.
We of beggars' free verse stand time's testing,
penniless, but with no gods are jesting.
poem by Elysabeth Faslund
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Louis' Trip
Few, nephew, sew, threw, brew, flew, dew, drew;
And like Louis' Trip in the land of your muse,
But, try to understand the muse of my love around you in this town.
Proposed, posed, opposed, dosed, hosed, bossed, nosed;
And at 'Peduase Lodge in Aburi (Ghana) '! !
But, try to understand the muse of my love around you in this town.
Crew, hew, Jew, stew, shrew, strew, new, mew, yew;
And like the dust from your eyes! !
But, try to understand the muse of my love around you in this town.
This was like my life in Conakry in those days,
But, bring me home with the sweet muse of your love;
For, i have a message for you in this town.
Long, belong, along, song, among, dong, cong, pong, strong, gong, wrong;
And over many different places!
But, try to understand the muse of my love around you in this town.
Cream, ream, bream, beam, dream, steam, stream;
And over many different ways! !
However, i do have a message for you in this town.
Over many different years,
Over many different ways,
Over many different types,
Over many different places,
Over many different styles,
Over many different acts,
Over many different works,
But, do remember me always in your heart;
For, the future depends on the positive muse of this life today.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Poetry Reading
To be a boxer, or not to be there
at all. O Muse, where are our teeming crowds?
Twelve people in the room, eight seats to spare
it's time to start this cultural affair.
Half came inside because it started raining,
the rest are relatives. O Muse.
The women here would love to rant and rave,
but that's for boxing. Here they must behave.
Dante's Infemo is ringside nowadays.
Likewise his Paradise. O Muse.
Oh, not to be a boxer but a poet,
one sentenced to hard shelleying for life,
for lack of muscles forced to show the world
the sonnet that may make the high-school reading lists
with luck. O Muse,
O bobtailed angel, Pegasus.
In the first row, a sweet old man's soft snore:
he dreams his wife's alive again. What's more,
she's making him that tart she used to bake.
Aflame, but carefully-don't burn his cake!
we start to read. O Muse.
poem by Wislawa Szymborska
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
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.
Season's Cornation Day (Italian Sonnet)
Beneath the pale sun's melancholy ray
a tearful empress lays her garland down,
relinquishing her fragrance of renown,
where blossoms left on each abandoned spray
are strewn like flags o'er Coronation Day.
An auburn rival will usurp her crown,
assume her royal throne and queenly gown,
then lead her where awakened vultures play.
The grand procession winds along the square
where nimbly darts a joyous cymbal's flame.
'Yet, Autumn, what is in the urn you bear?
Perchance the ashes of a maid's last prayer
whose grief is now your ornament of shame?
... Such hell you pay for slaying Summer's heir! '
[An Italian sonnet is composed of an octave, rhyming abbaabba, and a sestet, rhyming cdecde or cdcdcd, or in some variant pattern such as cdccdc, but with no closing couplet. A sonnet's meter is iambic pentameter.]
poem by Susan Crowe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet 100: Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
Where art thou, Muse, that thou forget'st so long
To speak of that which gives thee all thy might?
Spend'st thou thy fury on some worthless song,
Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light?
Return, forgetful Muse, and straight redeem
In gentle numbers time so idly spent;
Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteem,
And gives thy pen both skill and argument.
Rise, resty Muse, my love's sweet face survey
If time have any wrinkle graven there;
If any, be a satire to decay,
And make time's spoils despisèd everywhere.
Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life;
So thou prevent'st his scythe and crooked knife.
poem by William Shakespeare
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Lines to one who wished to read a poem I had written
Nay, read it not, thou wouldst not know
What lives within my heart,
For from that fount it does not flow;
'Tis but the voice of Art.
I could not bid my proud heart speak,
Before the idle throng;
Rather in silence would it break
With its full tide of Song.
Yes, rather would it break, than bare,
To cold and careless eyes,
The hallowed dreams that linger there,
The tears and agonies.
My lyre is skillful to repress
Each deep, impassioned tone;
Its gushing springs of tenderness
Would flow for one alone.
The rock, that to the parching sand
Would yield no dewy drop,
Struck by the pilgrim prophet's want,
Gave all its treasure up.
My heart then, is my only lyre;
The prophet hath not spoken,
Nor kindled its celestial fire;
So, let its chords be broken.
I would not thou shouldst hear those lays,
Though harsh they might not be;
Though thou, perchance, might'st hear and praise,
They would not speak of me.
poem by Anne Lynch Botta from Poems (1848)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Sonnet to Amicus
WHOE'ER thou art, whose soul-enchanting song
Steals on the sullen ear of pensive woe;
To whom the sounds of melody belong,
Sounds, that can more than human bliss bestow;
Like the wak'd God of day, whose rays pervade
The spangled veil of night, and fling their fires
O'er the cold bosom of the em'rald glade,
While bath'd in tears, the virgin orb retires.
Thy glowing verse illumes my path of care,
And warms each torpid fibre of my heart,
And tho' my MUSE exults thy smiles to share,
She feels the force of thy superior art;
YET, shall she proudly own her timid lays,
The cherish'd darlings of thy ENVIED PRAISE.
poem by Mary Darby Robinson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Emell
This muse of love is like how to write a song,
This muse of care is like how to write a poem,
This muse of peace is like how to write a stroy,
This muse of joy is like how to write a book,
But, i am now delivered with the muse of your love!
Because, i now live in the land of your muse and,
You are called Emell.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Divine Pastorall
Strephon & I upon a bank were laid,
Where the gay spring in varied colours playd,
& her rich odours lavish nature shed.
When thus the Youth, while this we wondring view
Can we but wonder at its maker too,
Amintas, if I know him, did not use
Shoud such a subject call, to want a muse,
Oh sing the great, the wise creating powr,
While silent I admire, & in your words adore.
Then I, for long before the thought was mine,
Did thus to meet the good demand begin.
Ye Mountains, & ye hills which lower rise,
Ye humble vallies, & ye spreading trees,
Ye pleasant meadows, & thou easy stream,
O praise the Lord, O magnify his name!
Yes, as you can you tell his name abroad,
The wondrous work proclaims the worker God.
Gently awhile sweet Breezes move along,
Then swiftly bear aloft my finisht song.
Ye tame & savage beasts in one accord,
Joyn with all these to Glorify the Lord;
Ye Birds, Ye tunefull birds in him rejoyce,
Give him your musick, who gave you your voice,
Hark how the cheerfull labour of their throats,
returns the tribute of their pretty notes.
Gently awhile sweet Breezes move along,
Then swiftly bear aloft my rising song.
But still the earth, & still the seas are mute,
The Birds are speechless, speechless is the Brute,
Man that alone can speak his praise must doo't.
Praise him O man with a transported heart,
Let the melodious hand confess its art,
Let the raisd voice his bounteous glory's sing,
Shoud less be joynd to praise so great a King?
Gently awhile sweet Breezes move along,
Then swiftly bear aloft my rising song.
For thee the seasons run the circling year,
The clouds drop fatness, & the fruits appear,
Thee as the Lord of all below he plac'd,
Free in thy choice, & by thy chusing bless'd,
Tis true we must account for all we do,
But to a God alone th' account is due.
Gently awhile sweet Breezes move along,
Then swiftly bear aloft my rising song.
The Seraphim, & all the Heavenly pow'r,
Bright in their shapes, but in their virtues more,
Came to the shade where our first parents lay,
They heard him reason, & they heard her pray,
Then struck their Golden harps, & as they flew,
Cry'd, Halelujah, man is made for heaven too.
Go on, my Muse, Go on, & Gratefully express,
The Creatures thanks, in the Creators praise.
To see this pair the fallen powrs came in,
Torturd with malice, & deformd by sin,
They saw this happy pair designd to fill
The realms, from whence they fell by doing ill,
They heard their Joyfull anthems to their God,
& faign they woud have harmd ym if they coud,
Whom they woud harm they impotently curse,
Their strength indeed was great but God was ours.
Go on, My Muse, Go on, & Gratefully express.
The Creatures thanks, in the Creators praise.
I know I cannot speak his mercy's through,
Yet what I can, of what I ought Ile do,
Mean as they are, my notes to him belong,
Mean as it is, he will reward my song.
Go on, my Muse go on, & gratefully express
The Creatures thanks, in the Creators praise.
On such a theam I coud for ever dwell,
Thus lett my voice when I must perish fail
& thus my monument my story tell;
Here lyes a Youth—stay passenger & pray,
Nor pitty him who di'd no common way,
But when his breath was all in hymns bestowd
Sent up his soul to bear 'em to his God.
So lett me end, the twilight does appear,
The heat has left to rarify the air,
The winds it broke grow strong enough to fly,
Yes swiftly fly ye winds, & bear my Lays on high.
poem by Thomas Parnell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!