Well, I can’t do the volta to a turn -
it turns up by itself, twirls in at the start;
it won’t sit in its place, it will not learn
that timing is the pinnacle of this art.
It fidgets when I fit it for an octave
and it won’t agree to wait for the twelfth;
it will dance when it pleases, I must waive
all rules, it must decide things for itself.
I must be submissive, it must control
the style and metre of stanza and line.
It’s brash and pushy, grabs the writer’s role
thrusts me aside, writes out this life of mine.
Life can’t be a perfect sonnet for thosewhose voltas come in at the start, or close.
I am travelling and will probably be offline more often than I like :) Enjoy the poetry here and in the season/world wherever you are. I will catch up with you as and when I can beg/borrow/get a net connection. Stay well!