Refined to lines of trimeter, he tried
to pose the sonnet he desired to be
a subtle way to move young poets he
described as cattle in a field of flies.
It paid no dividends nor made a change;
the poets wrote estranged from form he knew.
Pentameter, tetrameter just flew
from pens in random flight as if arranged.
Iambs, spondee, trochee were liberally
abused in rhythms broken and confused;
the words came out of sheer banality,
with metricality, as such, refused.
God’s fate, he sighed, you eat and fart bovine
while dining words sublime in verdant glades.
© 4 February 2008, I. D. Carswell
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