This was news to me. In all honesty, I probably only recognise that a sonnet is indeed a sonnet about half the time – if even that.
Perhaps a reason I like sonnets is that I like to be surprised.
Or perhaps I’ve chosen the poems that don’t involve too much typing, and fourteen lines is just enough, thank you very much.
This, so the title says, is a sonnet. It’s by Michelene Wandor from her collection Musica Transalpina.
I’m not easy with newness, tired
with another version of eye contact
which reminds me of a day across a table
mozzarella teeth and olive tongue
my hot blush is like the boy in a blazer
across the library, teenage sweat
then I carried the Valentine round
now I want to believe that a smile when we
swell within the same beat together
means we might be together
perhaps I’ve had it wrong all these years
perhaps I don’t want to be with you
just be you
See the intro/roundup