Rhymes: An Irregular Sonnet on Their Elusiveness

Neatly beyond the mind’s reach they lurk –
That quatrain or tercet pulled up short
By hours, days, even years. Nothing for it
Except patience, poised between rest and work
Inspiration’s unglamorous obverse
And frequent sine qua non as writer turns
Deep-sea angler. Beneath conversations,
Newscasts, staff meetings, their chimed murmurs
Promise symmetries other language lacks.
Back inside your study, upon sleep’s brink
Again the silence stirs. Somewhere between ink
And aspirin you haul them in; relax
At last, prose left standing, for now outmatched –
Self strangely other, not as you might think.

Martin Bennett | Mudlark No. 12
Contents | Summertime in Italy