Professor Eliot has us writing sonnets. He wants us to explore the possibilities, writing four by Tuesday, in these forms: Italian (Petrarchan), Occitan, English (Shakespearean), and modern (free verse).

I find the form and variations exquisite, and indulge myself in every line and verse. I am romantic, and in love, and know of no better way to express my passion then in the wondrous sonnet.

But after three days of writing the sodden things I am fit to be institutionalized, and will throttle anyone who dares to speak the wretched word.

~~~

Still, it must be done. I spend an evening in the library reading sonnets, and maybe it's the quiet atmosphere, perhaps I've had to weary of them before I could appreciate them, but I begin to feel their rhythm. Perhaps that was what I missed.

How I envy Keats, spending YEARS to write his poems. Given only these three days I imagine his sonnets would be as rough as mine. Of course, he didn't have many years.

I am procrastinating.

I give the Petrarchan a brush up, still lots to do. But I like the idea of Terri reading aloud, I like the idea of Terri, period. But one thing at a time.

I head back to our room, and there she is on the bed, listening to Wes Montgomery, of course, and doing her bio homework, chloroplasts and ribosomes and so on. I snuggle up, hand her the poem, and with my head on her shoulder, I say, in my most dulcet tone, “please, my sweet little candy apple, read.”

~~~

She reads:

If only God had granted me a heart
As sweet as Persephone’s spring blossom,
This ache within my breast might quick depart,
But no, my heart beats with hues of autumn.

Sepian tones, tainted with clotted blood,
My dull heart longs yet for a wildflower,
A love to love, to wed and bed, a bud
To call my own, a bouquet of sweet myrrh.

Too cruel! When next spring comes I will away.
For my pledge, her heart beats for another.
The words I have poured I cannot unsay.

She shall not suffer me another day.
Peace I seek, for this my heart I’ll barter,
I am broken, autumn’s bloom cast away.

~~~

“Awww . . .” says Terri.

~~~

I grab the poem from her hand, fling it to four winds, and say,

“it makes me crazy when you read Petrarchan sonnets. Kiss me you fool. RAVAGE ME!”

~~~

I feel better.

~~~

The Occitan is an unfamiliar form, the meter seems of choice, and I feel directionless.

I write of a lovely, cold day Terri and I spent together at the beach. I mutter this one to myself:

Blasted! by the wind, sans Helio’s warming rays,
Shivering! despite our loving hearts that soar,
Together! arm in arm, the two of us, intrepid gays,
Set Forth! all hardships in our path, chosen to ignore.

Why? to what end this silly Christmas day foray?
None! but to say I love thee, and will forever more.
Hear! we claim this cold land to be our own from this day!
Ours! we two: I, that you adore, and you, that I adore.

Cold! this day we march, full bear winter’s fury.
Behold! this virgin snow sullied not by sole.
Seeking! not accolades, but this—our love to marry,

Away! from judging eyes and undertones, before this sea,
Vows! exchanged, heart to heart and soul to soul,
Bliss! we give our word—I will love thee, and thee will love me.

~~~

Meh.

~~~

The Shakespearean sonnet should come easily, so familiar are we with his verse, but I am numb with words. Least I not do better in the morning, Professor Eliot will not be amused. Nor should he be.

I read this to myself, pretending I am the Bard, reading Sonnet 116 to HIS love:

There is no love greater than mine for thee,
For thou art the most babealicious maid
In this, and yonder worlds we’ve yet to see,
Be they splintered rock or heavenly made.

Were I to count your qualities, there’d be
No time left to embrace in clench so sweet,
Nor time to sleep, or eat, or even pee,
Nor grab a cup of Joe, or read your tweet.

Beyond measure, you are perfection’s muse,
And I your humble wench at beck and call,
My heart, my soul, my bod is yours to use,
Nothing you ask of me would I refuse.

Of you I ask but this—reciprocate
My Love, and pledge to me you’ll ne’er go straight.

~~~

Perhaps with sleep will come divine inspiration. This will not do. I dare not pull such a stunt.

~~~

Thank God for Milton. His far-seeing sightless eyes saw rhymes as slats in a confining fence. "Away," he said, and thus was born the liberated, wild-child of verse: free verse.

As tired as I am, I push through. I can only hope Professor Eliot sees I've tried:

I’ve felt your love, have come to know its joys,
Your smile ignites my own, our passion burns
As one, we come together, two as one,
In love or sleep, these tears bespeak my love.

I am without untoward premonition,
No dark secret have I not freely shared,
Nor have I felt from you recalcitrance,
We have been, and are, lovers fair and true.

Least I burden you with words insincere,
Or bestow one unwanted kiss or touch,
I will hush, still my hands, so you may breath
Without the weight of me upon your breast.

Sleep! But I do pray you keep not your breast
Too long from me. I long to prove my love.

~~~

I sigh.

I put on my jammies, brush and floss, apply dabs of moisturizer here and there, do one or two private things, then crawl into bed and kiss Terri good night. Twice.

It’s been a long day.

I close my eyes. Rhymes and verses float before me, and as I begin to drift off, a memory stirs . . . a song . . . long ago . . . a song my mother sang to me when I was little . . .

"I see the moon, the moon sees me,
The moon sees somebody I want to see.
So, God bless the moon and God bless me,
And God bless the 'Somebody' I want to see . . ."

~~~

And this:

“Now run along home, jump into bed,
say your prayers, don’t cover your head . . ."


~~~

Is it any wonder why I love poetry?