A Sonnet About Adventure
I sometimes write poetry. I like the traditional Shakespearean sonnet form because of my familiarity with it. Once you write in a specific format often enough, it becomes a blank canvas to write whatever you want. Figuring out the rhyme and meter is like solving a crossword puzzle.
The misanthropic sailor roves apart
faced here with icy seas that clutch his hull.
He shivers less. His furs obscure the chart
he drew to match the stars. His sails were full.
The thickly corded rope was pulling tight.
A yanking jarring hope of journey’s end
gave way, collapsed, into the wand’ring night.
A clouded moon soft timidly ascends.
The grip of oars, the sloshing forward thrust
into the vagueness. North then North then North.
His foggy breath reveals the icy crust
along the lips that chant, “I must go forth”
The sails are full again. He gets some rest.
and dreams that he’s not heading North but West.