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Sonnets

My first attempts to write in sonnet form
Drew kind but brutal criticism then
From one who gently told me as a norm
My own voice I should use thereafter when
This strange iambic brute with fourteen tails
Does size upon my mind; its blandishment
Disguising every pain which it entails
Until at last it lives luxiriant
Within my garden. Hid between the walls
Resides a brain long fashioned by the calls
Of gentle nature's fine reticulum.

No-one should doubt their own ability
To thus enjoy such calm tranquility.

Submitted: Thursday, August 22, 2013
Edited: Friday, August 23, 2013


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  • Pradip Chattopadhyay (8/22/2013 4:02:00 AM)

    wonderful poem, very impressive.

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