I took the sonnet I wrote last week to tonight's poetry group. The guys liked it. Ron (whose minimalist poems I enjoy very much, although I could never write anything in that style) liked it. He wrote this on the copy he'd looked at as I read ... "Beautiful. Great attention to detail. A real sonnet!" Strictly speaking it's not a real sonnet (doesn't conform to any traditional rhyme pattern or the required rhythm) but his comment is encouraging. Ron suggested changing the word "never" in line seven to "yet". I'll give it a go.
Another Day
This world spins on and on again
uninterrupted by the ways of men,
our little victories and sad defeats
within whose grasp the spirit meets
the limits that all flesh must find
in life, which being neither kind
nor yet unkind, passes as it must,
this earth to earth and dust to dust,
through sacred rituals and these rites
of passage through the faded light’s
remembrance of our highs and lows,
our commonplace, our joys and woes.
But spin it does for each new dawn
while we left here, look up, move on.
Spike had a less than poetic day (although a pleasant enough evening at the AGNSW with her parents and grandmother). Neil Gaiman's friend, the tree in Stardust, gives you a hint.
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