Post Road Magazine #29


Marianna Krejci-Papa

A sonnet is a way to torture thought,
To tie it to a bed of thorns and spines,
To whip it 'til it says the things it ought
To say, and flows in neatly-ordered lines.
A sonnet is a prison cell for sound,
Just five feet wide by fourteen paces long
With bars in novel patterns all around
To structure and contain a little song.
Canaries sing in such an ornate cage.
A sonnet is a teacher, kind yet stern,
Of martial arts that poets need to learn
Of music undervalued in our age,
A lens, a filter sorting out belief.

But more than these, a box for storing grief.

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