I jotted down a few lines and determined that the Shakespearean sonnet would be the easiest to tackle first. If you are not familiar or just a quick reminder, sonnets have fourteen lines. The two most common forms are the Shakespearean or English and the Petrarchan or Italian. In the Shakespearean version, you have three quatrains and one couplet with an end rhyme of ABAB CDCD EFEF GG. In the Petrarchan version, you have an octet and a sextet with an end rhyme of ABBAABBA CDECDE. Before you say it, yes, there are variations in English version (i.e., Spenserian with ABAB BCBC CDCD EE) and in the rhyme scheme of the Petrarchan sextet (i.e., CDCDCD). Nevertheless, I chose to go with the standard Shakespearean end rhyme scheme. Also, purist poets write sonnet in iambic pentameter. I'm not one for scansion but my OCD requires some adherance to whatever rules are at play, and I just wanted to get my words down. In the end, I went with pentameter length and for as many iambic feet within them as I could.
While my initial journal jotting [and, yes, most everything I write begins with pen (G2 any color right now) on the page (definitely Moleskin journals)] spilled over to more than one page, I knew I would have a hard enough time confining my flourishing frustrations to sonnet requirements and to just fourteen lines of ten syllables each. 140 syllables to get this out of my system - no way! So I took it one step further and decided to attempt to write a crown of sonnets. A crown is a collection of seven sonnets that tell one story. The ending line of each sonnet becomes the beginning line of the next sonnet in the series. And to continue the crown circular imagery, the last line of the final sonnet in the series becomes the first line of the initial sonnet. [Afterwards, my friend, Staci, had to remind me of the heroic crown which has 15 sonnets, but that's a whole different challenge that I will tackle later.] So, I did most of the journaling in quick spurts as I had to go to work that Wednesday. As I would catch a break, on my lunch hour, during a conference call that began to bore me, or when an idea hit, I just grabbed my journal and captured the inspiration before it got away. When I got home later that evening, I did a final bit of rough sketching in my journal and moved to my computer to begin crafting something. I spent hours selecting lines from the journal, looking up words in the dictionary, finding alternative options in the thesarus, and searching for appropriate end rhyme words in my new trusty friend, my rhyming dictionary.
Knowing the next night was Thursday and, of course, Poezia, I focused on getting it into some format that I could present to our poetry group and get their feedback. I did get it ready and went to work full of anticipation to share my new creation with my poet friends that evening. It was well received and they gave me some good suggestions for revisions. Funny enough, I valued their commisseration and agreement that the rules that fueled my passion were crazy and they supported my venting through poetic form. That crazy Poezia family always comes through for me! So, after some minor reworks, I now present my first crown of sonnets. If you have comments or would like to know more about other poetic forms, just let me know and maybe you will fuel my next tirade! Enjoy.
The Proclamation
On first reading her grand proclamation
Just delivered by email this morning
Calling all poets across the nation
To accept her new whim, do her bidding,
It encthralled me, a most loyal servant.
National Poetry Month is April.
For years, she served prose to fans miscreant;
My rhymes to her court? An honor, a thrill!
Enlisting the likes of a Kennedy
For to judge her fair contest so regal.
Surely, O would propose no villainy,
No diabolical plan, no evil.
Reading the rules brought my arrant surprise -
Her point five in fine print captured my eyes!
The Fifth Rule
Her point five in fine print captured my eyes -
A simple request politely advance
In legal jargon construed, truth belies
The point 'round which she seductively pranced.
Renounce my rights in perpetuity?
Think only of benefits that be gained:
My meager words emblazoned with glory
Forever in Harpo Land well retained.
Why should be call the Queen on her carpet?
Question her clear intent, so very pure?
Minions, on such things, should not fret -
Simplest in mind, blind to her allure.
From toady status we poets can't hide;
So send her your best work crafted with pride!
The Poet
So send her your best work crafted with pride!
Don't wait, don't delay! Her deadline, don't miss!
Her online request went out far and wide;
No matter the price, her ring you must kiss.
Oh, let your rhyme and meter flow freely.
In sugary sweet tone, she reminds us,
Parting with such nonsense should be easy.
Her unjust demands should not cause a fuss.
Why hoard all your words with such fervor now?
You freely holler them with great rage;
Toss them around loosely at Bs, and how!
Just entice them from your mind to the page -
Lord knows, it is always the hardest part
To fill empty spaces with your bleeding heart.
The Sacrifice
To fill empty spaces with your bleeding heart,
She thinks should never take that much trouble.
Just put proverbial horse after cart -
Write not what you know! Burst your own bubble!
Children on the floor, excised through workshops,
Left battered and bruised, but yours none the less.
Maybe you should keep them? Then again, not.
Just work your way through this tediousness.
Slap some random rhyming words on the page.
Quick before moments pass, jot something more
About some bluebird that sings from her cage.
Sell yourself out as her poetry whore!
To you and the fair horse on which you rode,
I bid you, Farewell, my sacrificed ode.
The Genuflection
I bid you, Farewell, my sacrificed ode.
Tears gather in my eyes as I succumb
And bend to her will, so strong and so cold.
Grown men who curtsy look stupid and dumb!
My respect for myself has left the room
Before the almighty Queen of TV.
I'll wallow away in foreshadowed gloom
If she rejects poetic gifts from me.
So that's what I do. Bend so precisely
At the waist; right foot goes back and behind.
The left knee bends and takes me down nicely;
Assume the position, I've lost my mind!
I would know better had I read more Rand;
Whenever you bow, you can't take a stand.
The Critique
Whenever you bow, you can't take a stand.
So lay your children down to go under
The rusty knife in an unsteady hand
Of some underpaid, patsy producer
Who thinks certainly all poems must rhyme
To be chosen by Her Exalted Self.
If your work makes one think, don't waste her time -
Better to let it ferment on some shelf!
Yes, they will own your submission. Let it
Wilt in dark recesses, caverns, or caves
Never to see light! Compost with shit,
last night's dinner, pieces, and parts one saves
To feed Majesty's glorious roses.
So submit, and another door closes.
The Resolution
So submit, and another door closes.
Careful! Your hands may just break in her frame
Like the Commandments given to Moses.
Lost to that one you cannot call by name,
You shake your head in pain and frustration.
If no words came as her deadline drew night,
Pay her no mind! Forego the temptation!
Stand up for your writing! Hold your chin high!
This thorny crown serves as a call to arm
Poets with principles, conscience, and rights.
Do not go gentle, but first do no harm,
My fellow wordsmiths, turn up those spotlights!
Send no work less due consideration
On first reading her grand proclamation.
