Garrison Keillor is having a contest over at his website: write a 70-541-VB sonnet. You can read about that here.
I like sonnets. I may give this one a whirl. It may be about bare-chested men drinking around a 98-362 fire.
Garrison Keillor is having a contest over at his website: write a 70-541-VB sonnet. You can read about that here.
I like sonnets. I may give this one a whirl. It may be about bare-chested men drinking around a 98-362 fire.
Good luck. When I shop for sonnets, I look for durability. Like the stones Malloy carries in his pockets. I want to be able to take one out and suck on it whenever I feel like and not worry that it might dissolve or erode noticeably. That’s a good test to know how you’re doing.
I might as well post my effort:
My back yard. Night. The vernal equinox.
We sit, all men, around a fire of oak
and last year’s Christmas tree. Our talk unlocks
our thoughts, and musings sift through light and smoke.
We drink. We talk: our lives, and what’s to do.
We talk of art and music, God and cause.
Someone’s removed his shirt. Now I have too.
I don’t know why this comforts, but it does,
to sit bare-chested, flesh exposed like mind
around the crackling light. Another drink—
I want to know if all these thoughts behind
these other chests can make me see, not think.
These men I love, and more than that, require:
we slowly start to move around the fire.
Durable? I doubt it. But it is a sonnet.
I love this.
Perfectly fine effort. Well iamed, too. “Flesh exposed like mind around the crackling light.” Very nice bit, that.