sonetto moderno

Without intending to do so, I wrote a sonnet. I remember studying the sonnet with no enthusiasm or love light years ago while in high school. The homework assignments to write them caused me such great angst as I struggled with the rigid constraints that defined this form of literature. All I knew is that understanding and following their rules garnered a good grade, which is what I was after; my soul was never in anything that I submitted (freedom of artistic expression was a concept brewing inside of me that wouldn’t fully take shape until sometime in my distant future). So I’m not sure why hearing the word sonnet in reference to my piece sounded much sexier than simply saying I wrote a poem or that I needed to express myself while trying to grasp a devastating situation looming before me. I decided to reinvestigate a lesson long forgotten.

Briefly, a sonnet (from the Italian word sonetto meaning little song) is a poem containing fourteen lines of iambic pentameter with a specific rhyme scheme; my piece is composed of 14 lines and that was the only criteria it met. Having grown into one who is quick to push beyond and break the creative boundaries imposed by “the way it’s always been done,” I felt that it was indeed a sonnet, so I kept reading. I was pleased to find that some other rule breakers out there have loosened the requirements putting an updated spin on the little song, “…modern sonnets are typically still short, lyric poems in the spirit of the traditional sonnet. The most common modern sonnet is a fourteen lined lyric poem that does not employ iambic pentameter or a set rhyme scheme” (http://www.sonnetwriters.com). And there it was, an affirmation that I had produced my very own modern sonnet. It’s a tad on the dark side, reflective of past and current experiences, but what is life without contrasts and contradictions?

bait & switches - tsl©

nice until they're nasty
beholding they hold back
genuine, they lie
giving as they take.
we fall down under false charm
hook, line then sink
into a heartless pocket
of hearts unknowingly picked
and taste the sting of a lash.
the dagger sliced, retreats, repeats
just left of main arteries
between the blink of blind eyes
we forgive in pain and step forward
to crush glasses of rose.

keep your peepers open!®