An Ugly English Sonnet, Out of Phase

You know, a poem is something more than just

A home for glib description, it’s a zone

In which to fit thoughts too taut to ingest,

Too strained to state without constraint. This moan

Of mine cannot converse without the help

Of rhyme and verse to steer its swerving course;

The depth of choice in freer voice makes hell

For starting bards; it’s hard to force divorce

From form when pleasant sounds are mental worms

That dig into the brain and stay until

They twist what you intend to say; the terms

Best fit for thoughts are dropped so sounds can fill

Their spots with concepts not quite on the dot,

Til you’ve a soft and rotten nonsense got.

​

​

​

1 2

​