Just a little celebration. I think I finished my Shakespearean sonnet last night. I had a breakthrough about some rough patches. A few words fell into place (at this stage, it comes down to words), and some of the flab dropped out of the final couplet.
Funny how a week ago I was still thinking that nothing could be cut without the poem losing its concreteness. Then last night I suddenly noticed words that added only syllables and places where the poem stalled in repetition or digression. Without conscious effort, I was able to substitute metric props for content and did more of the work I needed to do for the poem to reach its destination. This is one of those moments of possession that is almost as magical as the rare poem that writes itself.
When I read it again just now, the pacing of the poem surprised me a little, and the shift from the beginning section to the end worked well.
I’m still not sure about the last two words: they say what needs to be said, but they don’t mark the end of the journey the way a rolling pipe organ or a single stroke of the triangle does. As I write, I realize that the problem may be that I start with the unusual and move to the ordinary—serious flaw. Party canceled.
I vaguely remember that some of Willy S.’s sonnets don’t end up at Rhodes. I’ll have to read a few to examine how he gets from Point A to Point B and make it work.
