You’d think the sonnet would be written dead.

It went out with the nineteenth century.

And yet today its rhythms fill my head.

What curious thing is happening to me?


Am I the Bard come back in modern guise?

The soul of Wordsworth somehow transmigrated?

Has fairy-juice been dropped into my eyes

to get me with outmoded meters mated?


Iambics were discarded long ago

by Ezra Pound, who made the single word

the new poetic unit. As we know,

to write pentameter is now absurd.


I’ll soon be wearing ruffs, or yet poke bonnets,

should this become a habit, writing sonnets.  





Once you have read this verse, before you bin it,

perceive the pun the last line wears within it.