Unnumbered verses, artless, without measure,
debased, deformed, demeaning each word’s worth,
prospective chart not yielding promised treasure,
unhallowed hollow creed but prompting mirth,
not faith or works (A lisping infant’s curse,
with far more definition, so unhitches
all sense from sound.)—inharmony! or worse—
unruly, pouring forth in fevered pitches,
delude, deluge the world with reigning passion
incensed, in fondness penned by anyone
but, worshipful of idle, awful fashion,
without content. Why will they not have done?
With reason will your feats become the norm
again: true poetry in ideal form.
This week, we talked about sonnets in my HUM 122 class. Also, a couple of weeks ago at a meeting on Renaissance Island I was asked about writing a sonnet for the celebration of Shakespeare’s birthday. Those events reminded me of this sonnet about poetry that I wrote several years ago.