You know that you’re destined to be a poet when a line from a poem long-forgotten haunts you for over a decade, demanding to be incorporated anew into a sonnet.
Read, listen and enjoy, but as always, beware the siren call of the sonnet!
*******
Whenever I think that I might write a sonnet,
the urge overcomes me to go sleep upon it.
The mere thought of writing in that wretched form
must be from the depths of insanity born.
Yet pen to paper is drawn against my will;
I hope it’s for good; I fear ‘tis for ill.
But what, pray tell me, is one wont to do
in such a position, except perhaps rue
the day that she ever did read Oscar Wilde,
or Keats, Lewis Carroll and Shakespeare besides?
There is no cure for it–not one that I’ve found.
Learn from my misfortune, dear reader. Sound
the alarm bells, yea, and steadfastly shun it
should forces compel you thus to write a sonnet!
Whenever I think that I might write a sonnet 12.11