Last thing at night I made up my mind to write a sonnet. This was no easy option. I’ve tried and failed many times to write sonnets. I think I probably completed on for NaPoWriMo, just because I was bloody-minded and said I would complete each post’s challenge. But given the option of rhyming couplet or odes, it was looking more attractive. This did not, however, stop me from indulging in lots of displacement activity this morning. I had a burning need to know whodunit and complete reading Sophie Hannah’s latest Hercule Poirot novel. (Incidentally, she began her writing career while still at Cambridge with a volume of villanelles.) Then I also had errands to carry out., the compost bin to rearrange, the dog walked. THEN, I urgently needed to mop floors because we have guests arriving tomorrow evening.
But a sonnet it is for today’s poetry practice. It has been committed.
On Brooklyn Bridge
As I stand on Brookyn Bridge and looking
out to Lady Liberty beyond, and muse
to self how that sight felt to ancestors
who passed Her gaze and beheld this thing
arising so huge and full of portent,
which rhymed with heart and mind. That as may be.
That symbol would change their tongue and accent.
What losses paid for aspired to Beauty?
Those empty eyes. That light so high aloft
would only blink at passing ships at night.
Too feeble to make it safe to harbour,
to puncture venal desires, curing vices,
or elevate, or conform to higher choices.
Copyright © Bee Smith 2018