The Art of the Sonnet

I

O Poet of the Sonnet! What will you
Pick as your subject for your simple song?
What seeds of rhymes or imageries are strong
Enough to blossom a sonnet true?
Shall we sing of Dull Dunce and his crude crew?
Or of the falling towers of Hong Kong?
Or hum a little country tune, among
The grazing sheep - a song of simple hue?

No! Let us sing, in a higher, nobler fashion,
Of universal things: unfold your plan,
O Poet! Plant the seeds, and let them thrive:
How worldly Men engage the fruits of passion,
How mighty God subdue the pride of Satan,
How feeble Man inquires the riddles of Life...

II

In soils of love, our Muses' favourite ground,
So many sonnets effortlessly grow.
With earthly symbols Earth does overflow,
But few in th'earth of heaven can be found.
'Tis the task of the poet to unbound
Love from its worldly chains, and let it glow
Above all human toils like the rainbow
That dissipates into silence profound.

But soils of loss are also fertile for bloom,
For oft the hands of Death collect the young;
Untimely partings all friendships consume,
Left one singing, and th'other to be sung.
So love and loss the sonnet form assume:
The grieving poet mimes the Muses' tongue.

III

Devoid of light, concentrated in hate,
Ebbed from innocence and drowned by pride,
From Satan's mind (which rage and pain divide)
A sonnet can easily germinate;
But he at best can only imitate
A deformed sonnet that speaks from th'inside
Of his soul, where the grace of God is denied
And is replaced by a violent debate.

Hail holy Light! Thy radiance shall bring
The nourishment for the budding rhymes;
Great poems shall flourish in Thy holy will.
So Michael, heavenly archangel, sing!
Sing, to the harmonies of the wind chimes,
A loving sonnet craft'd with artful skill.

IV

How easy for the soul, immune to Time,
To think itself as immortal; yet when
The cold rain batters through the bones of men,
The soul quivers in mortality's slime.
But blooming sonnets see Death as sublime
And wish for th'unbearable rain again
In order to fuel the Poet's pen
To find his immortality through rhyme.

And many do become poetic gods
Though never solved the enigmas of Life:
Does Fate depend on favourable odds?
Do righteous souls live without inner strife?
Our Poets exist to give these thoughts a voice;
The sonnet form reflects their god-like choice.

V

Bloom then, O Sonnet! Bloom to match all Springs!
You, sprouting in plenty of fertile soil,
Growing through the darkness of wintry toil,
Drinking the rain that early Zephyrus brings,
Become the voice with which the Poet sings!
Create then, O Poet! Do not recoil
From fear of unforeseeable turmoil,
For Fortune lies beyond the face of things:

'Tis not for Fame that poets sonnets write –
No mortal fame impels immortal verse.
Let Intellectual Love be the guiding Light –
The deathless soul embarks th'endless traverse;
And let Imagination take its flight –
The singly mind unites th'entire universe.