Tuesday, April 11, 2017

A poetic interlude from a reader

I've been stuck on one of my meatier posts for over a week. While I'm sorting that out, here is some fan poetry. It's from an anonymous reader who posts here a lot. He has a knack for nailing the style of a Shakespearean sonnet. I don't know much else about him. He is shrouded in mystery. It wouldn't surprise me if he belonged to one of those esoteric, quasi-facetious secret societies. Anyhow, here is his poem, which he has given me permission to share here. It's untitled, so I guess we'll just call it "Sonnet #1." Actually, I bet he's written more. Let's call it "Sonnet #49."

There was a time when once I wanted -- ‘Twas youth--
To be a writer, known in verse or prose,
It made no difference what genre in truth
Provided fame, renown; so I then chose

A graduate program at great expense
To set me right with many sage workshops.
Professors lectured; students mirrored pretense,                                                

While I, as best I could, marked my path’s stops

And aimed full might and main at that master’s,                                             
Though empty ‘twere and paltry light in hand,
Nor could it vouchsafe gilt nor fame’s lustre,
And I found pale its shine, no brighter than sand,

Once done, and I’d on it means to reflect
And judge with doubts to make me heretic.


  1. Absolutely terrible and barely literate attempt. And the author was clearly trying not to imitate Shakespeare, except in form.

  2. Here's my take on that crappy sonnet:

    If he could bardic arts them mimic true
    And render Shakespeare’s verse as though his own,
    Might we then laurel fix as ‘twere his due
    Reward, that famèd sprig of ‘Pollo’s crown .

    Yet blunder and blindly lope doth he,
    Like Oedipus astray and casting ‘bout
    To grasp his daughter’s hand, just so this fraud,
    blindly swipes the wind, lacking wit to see.

    No skill to prompt or haunt his mind’s estate,
    He seeks the fruits depicted so well in art,
    Yet finds but deserts, mana to create
    None! Driest dust, his tongue recoils as parched.

    And desperate, perforce concludes, gimmick
    And copy’re his, but Shakespeare’s got him licked.

  3. I hear your point about this bard's
    Ass-like metric braying.
    And yet, I'll still defend him thus:
    I know what the fuck he's saying.