Ryze business networking
Very interesting discussion on Ryze as to whether a poet can reasonably write sonnets in the modern age. Personally, I think it's possible--but only if the conventions of the form are observed. The best sonnet of the 20th century, in my opinion, is "Leda and the Swan" by Yeats and this has the expected imagery and themes of a sonnet: classical mythology, love and lust, high events in the world of man. I feel a sonnet really doesn't work very well without the presence of a fairly dense imagery--and that's one reason that it's difficult to write very many now. I wrote one about 12 years ago that I was happy with--though it seems to have lost a line somewhere during the many transcribings!
Traveling through the sun-lit cyclades
Traveling through the sun-lit cyclades,
I thought about romances from the past,
Of mighty Ulysses strapped to the mast,
Of siren lovers: Priam on his knees,
Cursing Paris for that strange and vast
Emotion men call love: one only sees
That certain things were sure from first to last.
What is it in a single woman's eyes,
Or nose, or mouth, or lips, or snow white-breast,
That make men lose their reason and at once,
Begin to slowly plot and to devise,
Schemes and affairs that put love to the test,
Until the world itself has no defence?
Very interesting discussion on Ryze as to whether a poet can reasonably write sonnets in the modern age. Personally, I think it's possible--but only if the conventions of the form are observed. The best sonnet of the 20th century, in my opinion, is "Leda and the Swan" by Yeats and this has the expected imagery and themes of a sonnet: classical mythology, love and lust, high events in the world of man. I feel a sonnet really doesn't work very well without the presence of a fairly dense imagery--and that's one reason that it's difficult to write very many now. I wrote one about 12 years ago that I was happy with--though it seems to have lost a line somewhere during the many transcribings!
Traveling through the sun-lit cyclades
Traveling through the sun-lit cyclades,
I thought about romances from the past,
Of mighty Ulysses strapped to the mast,
Of siren lovers: Priam on his knees,
Cursing Paris for that strange and vast
Emotion men call love: one only sees
That certain things were sure from first to last.
What is it in a single woman's eyes,
Or nose, or mouth, or lips, or snow white-breast,
That make men lose their reason and at once,
Begin to slowly plot and to devise,
Schemes and affairs that put love to the test,
Until the world itself has no defence?
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