Sonnets Poem by Eric Bult

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.