It was so hard for me to write this line,
to get the words to fit within the beat.
It must have been so hard for this poet
To scrawl this soundless solitary stock.
I do not have the imagination
to get past the fifth line of a sonnet.
And yet here we are moving on to eight.
How long can this go on without a draft?
Could a rhyme occur without any craft?
I can already hear the final line!
It strikes the reader as carefully spare,
As the indefinite end to a prayer.
Here I go, the completion of the square:
Have I seen myself writing this somewhere?
I wrote this poem, but I am concerned about the “semi-automatic” in the fifth line, I think it is too severe.
There is something lovely about the position
of your taut waist and your shoulder, in addition
to the perfect authentic cadence formed from your
hairline to your chin, but listening to you snore
often makes me draw our semi-automatic,
and consider whether it would be pragmatic
if you expired with your excess artlessness.
Is there no way, or superhighway, to suppress
Your snorting laughter and your barbaric sneezing?
I cannot tell you to simply stop your squeezing
While we repose in our connubial harbor,
Since frankness has not replaced the early ardor
We so enjoyed two weeks ago when we first met.
Now, may I remind you, you bought that awful pet
You named after me, expecting me to love it.
I find its looks the incarnation of your wit,
which is as scatological as your tastes.
You stained the splendiferous score I had encased
As our wedding gift, and then out chugged the gardener
Who inquired, “if I would ever pardon her.”
Now observe me as I thwack you with a girder.
She is as in a field a silken tent
At midday when the sunny summer breeze
Has dried the dew and all its ropes relent,
So that in guys it gently sways at ease,
And its supporting central cedar pole,
That is its pinnacle to heavenward
And signifies the sureness of the soul,
Seems to owe naught to any single cord,
But strictly held by none, is loosely bound
By countless silken ties of love and thought
To everything on earth the compass round,
And only by one’s going slightly taut
In the capriciousness of summer air
Is of the slightest bondage made aware.
– Robert Frost
I like this poem quite a bit, because of course the tent is the poem itself, and that is a lovely idea. It is remarkable to me that, as cliched as a sonnet to an unidentified woman is, Frost seems to renew it, simply in the elegance of his construction. The sonnet is one sentence: “She is…” Realizing all of the constraints Frost placed upon himself, and still managed to make it flow, the poem seems like one-in-a-million. How often do miracles like these come along?
I tweaked the flashbacks after referring to William Trevor, and tried to clarify or cut some things. It should read differently! Thank you thank you thank you for everyone’s advice.