Marko Pamukovich

The sonnet is une forme passé, like years
Which made it saint – we pay it due respect,
But reading those is dull, as it appears,
And so they fall from fashion to neglect.
Yet is it so? Would Petrarch's rosy wine
And fiery sparks of Shakespeare's singing soul
Be same if housed in less a noble shrine?
Not so – it is the form that keeps them whole,
And by its grinding grip it makes their art
Fly up to reach the Heights, and like a shaft
To pierce the hearts of men, and do her part
In hailing Lord Apollo and his craft.
And since no age nor whim can kill a god,
Let sonnets bloom anew like Aaron's rod!