Entry 627 — My %!!#$&! Sonnet
While reviewing my 2011 blog entries, I came on the following “final version” of my life’s-work sonnet, and was astounded that I could have thought it good:
Sonnet from My Forties
Much have I ranged the kingdoms Stevens forged
Of deeply penetrating inquiries
Into, and deft use of, the metaphor,
And volumes filled in vain attempts to reach
The heights that he did. Often, too, I’ve been
To where the small dirt’s awkward first grey steps
Toward high-hued sensibility begin
In Roethke’s verse, or measured the extent
Of wing-swirled, myth-electric, royal light
That Yeats achieved, or marveled down the worlds
That Pound re-morninged splashingly to life,
But failed as dismally to match their works.
Yet still, nine-tenth insane though it now seems,
I seek those ends; I hold to my huge dreams.
The following struck me as much better:
Sonnet from My Forties
Much have I ranged the broad-skied latitudes
That Stevens festivalled his inquiries
On truth and the imagination to,
And reams used up in vain attempts to reach
The heights that he did. Often, too, I’ve been
To where the small dirt’s awkward first grey steps
Toward high-hued sensibility begin
In Roethke’s verse, or measured the extent
Of wing-swirled, myth-electric, royal light
That Yeats achieved, or marveled down the worlds
That Pound re-morninged windily to life,
but failed as dismally to match their works.
Yet still, nine-tenth insane though it now seems,
I seek those ends; I hold to my huge dreams.
But “broad-skied” bothered me. Nice thought, but I didn’t like the repetition of the d-sound, and “broad” seemed to me low in lyricality. So, once again I improved it:
Sonnet from My Forties
Much have I ranged the large-skied latitudes
That Stevens festivalled his inquiries
On truth and the imagination to,
And reams used up in vain attempts to reach
The heights that he did. Often, too, I’ve been
To where the small dirt’s awkward first grey steps
Toward high-hued sensibility begin
In Roethke’s verse, or measured the extent
Of wing-swirled, myth-electric, royal light
That Yeats achieved, or marveled down the worlds
That Pound re-morninged windily to life,
but failed as dismally to match their works.
Yet still, nine-tenth insane though it now seems,
I seek those ends; I hold to my huge dreams.
I don’t think I’ll live long enough to improve it more than thirty or forty more times.
.