This poem celebrates my appreciation of the sonnet–would that make it an ode then? Several years ago, when asked to write a sonnet for a poetry class, I became somewhat resistant. Was it a concealed poetic aesthetic that surfaced? Doesn’t a sonnet need a stimulus of high ecstasy to inspire it? Doesn’t a sonnet require passion to inflame it? Isn’t a sonnet best when it rises from that depth that then overflows into this beautiful form? I wrote this sonnet in a passionate response to the instructor’s homework assignment to “write a sonnet”.
‘Ode’ to the Sonnet
© by Christine O’Brien
One cannot demand a sonnet, voila!
It is conjured from the deepest ah ha!
Where’s the reservoir of unwritten poems?
Lying fallow beside unwritten tomes.
Sonnets conspire with sweet words unspoken
asleep in the depths waiting to be woken.
A prince’s kiss, the secret elixir
or is Shakespeare this poem’s fixer?
Loves lost and loves dreamed of afar or near
there lies the inspiration, the silent tear
sliding on to the page, now writer’s ink
connects the poem’s dots, the missing link.
Such inspiration cannot be contrived
the sonnet in its splendor from love derived.
What are your feelings about this poetic form? Be honest. Have you read any sonnets lately? Have you written one or more?