Tag Archives: sonnet

Sonnet: Daniel Kemper, ‘We Talked’

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Why the mumbled answers, often feeling
weary, staring out the window: bitter,
wistful, dreamy, harried — always reeling,
not engaging, letting out a titter,
mocking laughs or strange and distant crying?
But eventually she says it’s cancer,
not affairs, not me – then we were trying,
talking even if there was no answer.
But I would have those awful times again:
I whispered her to sleep and once she slept
I stroked her scalp and tucked her sheets, and then
I ran off to the shower and I wept.
We talked. We really talked though it was draining,
as one, about the time that was remaining.

*****

Daniel Kemper writes: “This poem is utterly imagination, perhaps of the “O my prophetic soul” variety. Alexandra (that’s her name) and I were out of contact at the time, but it would have been right as she came down with cancer, if I have my timeline right. It’s a multi-meter sonnet of the kind I thought probably the easiest to which I could introduce people. It starts off in trochaic meter and changes to iambic at the volta. This design choice was to have descending meter for the down mood, and when looking at the bright spot, change to ascending meter. The couplet unifies them via iambic meter plus feminine endings, hopefully that accented the coming together of the two at the end, even if unconsciously.”

‘We Talked’ was originally published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Daniel Kemper, a former tournament-winning wrestler, black belt in traditional Shotokan karate, and infantryman has earned a BA in English, an MCSE (Systems Engineering), an MBA, and an MA in English and had works accepted for publication at more than a dozen magazines, including a pushcart nomination. He’s been an invited presenter at PAMLA 2024 and presided over the Poetics Panel in 2025 and has been the feature poet at several Sacramento venues.

Photo: “Sick Day” by RLHyde is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.


 

Sonnet: Keith Roberts, ‘Lather’

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Inside the shower’s stream the morning blurs,
ceremony wakes on white marble tile;
brushed steel and shaving brush wait, rituals
that ask the rushing mind to pause a while.

The bowl presents the soap, the steam the heat;
damp badger bristles swirl, patient and slow.
No canned foam, no gelled and fleeting cheat,
hands repeating what older barbers know.

The lather builds like weather in the hand,
a cloud coaxed up from water, soap, and time;
slow turns that ask a man to pause and stand
at break of day before its clamors chime.

Hands learned the quiet patience of the bowl,
small weather turning slowly in the soul.

*****

Keith Roberts writes: “I’d be remiss if I didn’t give my wife credit for this poem. For my birthday she gave me a bowl, a brush, and a puck of all-natural shave soap from a local artisan. A little whisk into lather, the woody-whiskey scent comes up, and suddenly I swear I can hear modal jazz somewhere in the background. In a world built around consumption, algorithms, and binary takes, it’s important to our humanity to rediscover the transcendent in small, ordinary experiences like this. And maybe more importantly, to listen when other people share theirs. This poem is a thank you to my wife for helping me find one.

“I’m just starting this writing and poetry journey.  I’m a recovering math major with graduate degrees in Computer Science and Computational Social Science. Most of my career was spent living in the abstract: programming, modeling, data, systems. When my dad passed away a couple of years ago, something in me shifted. I started writing partly as a way to process the loss and partly to leave my kids something more durable than an Instagram feed. Also, and this is important, it gives me great comfort knowing that dad jokes can, in fact, achieve a kind of immortality…even in sonnet form. If that garners a few more eye rolls from my kids after I’m gone, I’ll consider my work a success.”

‘Lather’ was first published in Autumn Sky Poetry Daily

Photo: “Lather” by RLHyde is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: John Gallas, ‘Mol Sonnet’

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a man will cross the world at the smallest hope of love

Beep. Wrrrr. Clickclack. Ssssss. ‘Hello?’
Ssssss. Ssssss. Ssssss. ‘It’s’ – crackle – ‘Geet.’
Crackle. ‘We could’ – buzzzzz. Ssssss – ‘meet.’
Ssssss. Ssssss. ‘If’ – crackle crackle – ‘Joe?’
Umm. ‘I’mchangingtrainsatLeuvenstation
halfpastfiveonTuesdaymorning’bye.’
Clickclack. Beep. The Monday midnight sky
shuddered like a fridge. Our conversation
never matched our love. Too pissed to drive,
I took my bike. The roads were swiped with ice.
It snowed. My front teeth froze. I fell off twice.
‘The next train‘ – Jesus! Push me! – ‘to arrive…‘
We met – still moving. ‘Kiss me!’ That was it.
I biked back home to Mol. The sun shone. Shit.

*****

John Gallas writes: “Romantic Love called upon to go out in the cold on a bike to resurrect its glories, which may never quite have been what they are remembered as. I enjoyed the stop-start challenge of the expression of hesitation, and of producing punctuation of indecision and effort. Perhaps the last word, far from being annoyance, hints at sadness.”

Photo: “OuderAmstel” by Markus Keuter is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Sonnet: Beth Houston, ‘September’

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When spring’s ghost joins me on the deck to watch
Gilt city lights click on across the bay,
Some downtown maid squeaks windows, wipes the splotch
Between us. Here, this quiet view. Soft clay
And pungent eucalyptus, thick with rain,
Exude their essence. Summer’s gloom unwinds,
A pane has shattered, and each rampant cane
Of luscious juicy blackberries reminds
My grief entwining August’s humid air.
A wedge of geese pries open autumn, herds
Fat purple clouds toward dusk above the glare
Of distant offices. Your murdered words
Of love on voicemail echo you were dead
Before you put that bullet through your head.

*****

Beth Houston writes: “Regarding the sonnet: This is one poem I’d prefer to let the reader chew on without me explaining anything. It does have some tricky time aspects…”

She adds: “I have announced the submission period for the next anthology on the Rhizome Press website. Included are updated guidelines and new emails for submissions and general mail (no longer gmail). Folks will have plenty of time to submit. I just hope I don’t get an avalanche at the last minute. But better loads of poems than not getting them. I’m eager for people to let their poet friends know. I’d love to get LOTS of submissions.

‘September’ was first published in Rat’s Ass Review.

Beth Houston (www.bethhouston.com) has taught writing (mostly creative writing) at ten universities and colleges in California and Florida and has worked as a writer and editor. She has published a couple hundred poems in dozens of literary journals. She writes free verse and formal poetry, mostly sonnets, and has published a novel, two nonfiction books, and six poetry books (out of print). She edits the Extreme formal poetry anthologies via one of her indie presses, Rhizome Press (www.rhizomepress.com).

Photo: “Formation” by Nature_Freak is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Sonnet: Ernest Hilbert, ‘Friends of the Library Sale’

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It’s fallen half apart, a derelict.
The gatherings have sprung, the boards detached,
The spine perished, folding maps cut out.
The title page is splotched with ink and nicked
At the edge, the author’s homely portrait scratched—
A splash of beer, faint thumbmarks all about—
Discarded once, but now it’s yours. It lives,
Like you, diminished now by age and loss.
And so, it brings the breeze, the autumn sun,
The creaking door that with a push still gives
The afternoon, the birds and clouds, grass, moss,
The world still new, the journey not begun,
The path curling from sight in the soft glow
Of a fading day—and you, prepared to go.

*****

Ernest Hilbert writes: “I am a rare book dealer, so I spend my days surrounded by books. I love all kinds of books, and I have a particular affection for books no one seems to want but which are, nonetheless, worthwhile. There are, after all, far more books than there are readers. When a book is taken home, adopted, as it were, it finds a new life. Each book one acquires is, in its way, a hedge against the future, a small hope one might some day find the time to read it. When a book is read for the first time, however old it is, however many times it has been read before, it becomes a new book. The structure of the poem is designed to express this sense of renewal and hope, the litany of degradation and wear, the sense of hopelessness, one finds in the octave redeemed, after the volta, in the sestet. 

“I intended to communicate that sense of excitement I still feel when I first open a book, but I likely also had in mind Benjamin Franklin’s mock epitaph, written when he was 22, which begins “The Body of B. Franklin Printer / Like the Cover of an old Book / Its Contents torn out . . .” Finally, I must admit that there are few places I find myself happier than at a promising friends of the library book sale.”

*****

‘Friends of the Library Sale’ was originally published in The Sonneteer.

Ernest Hilbert was born in 1970 in the city of Philadelphia and educated at Rutgers and Oxford Universities. He is the author of the poetry collections Sixty Sonnets, All of You on the Good Earth, Caligulan—selected as winner of the 2017 Poets’ Prize—Last One Out, and Storm Swimmer, winner of the 2022 Vassar Miller Prize. He works as a rare book dealer in Philadelphia. Visit him at www.ernesthilbert.com

Photo: “Journey” by ~Matt LightJam {Mattia Merlo} is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Sonnet variation: Gail White, “The Left Hand of Saint Teresa’

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When the saint died, her best friend and confessor
cut off her hand. (What are friends for?) The shrine
at Ronda keeps it as a sacred treasure,
covered with glass and gold. I can’t assign
a special magic to those long-dead fingers,
lacking the power or the will to bless.
But with the faithful some enchantment lingers
over the bones, some touch of holiness
that once informed a living heart. I know
the spell I feel here will not come outside
with me, will never cheer me in the dark,
but for Teresa’s lovers, every tree
breathes miracles, and Ronda’s grassy park
abounds in babies whose young mothers planned
their nursery colors once they touched her hand.

Gail White writes: “This is one of about 3 poems based on my attraction-repulsion relationship with the cult of holy relics.  I’ve seen a number of relics, including Catherine of Siena’s head, which is really a creepy sight.  But after all, holiness is in the believer’s heart rather than in the subject’s bones, and that is what I have tried to get across with this poem for St. Teresa.”

This poem is the winner of Plough’s 2025 Rhina Espaillat Poetry Award.

Gail White is a widely published Formalist poet and a contributing editor to Light.  Her latest chapbook, Paper Cuts, is out on Amazon or from Kelsay Books. She lives in Breaux Bridge, Louisiana, with her husband and cats.

Photo: The Hand of Saint Teresa in the church of Nuestra Señora de la Merced in Ronda, Spain. This piece is traditionally visited & kissed by Christians.

Sonnet: Martin Elster, ‘Axis Denied’

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Earth, always the same distance from her star,
induced no crane to migrate, lark to sing,
chorus frog to trill, violet to spring,
nor leaves to turn. The solstice was as far
as the edge where galaxies all disappear.
The sun kept glaring down, as on that shore
where, from your tower, you chose to ignore
the thing I most desired. Wasn’t it clear?
Earth didn’t tilt. Her poles were locked in glaze,
sea level never changed, and when I walked
forever round your roost, you never talked
of waves, or even sensed the sun-launched rays
till yesterday when, with a sudden lurch,
Earth tipped and threw you off your chilly perch.

*****

Martin Elster writes: “The title “Axis Denied” works in two ways. Literally, it refers to a world without axial tilt, and therefore without seasons or change. Phonetically, “axis” echoes “access”—suggesting denied emotional entry or withheld intimacy—until a sudden shift finally breaks the stasis.”

Martin Elster, who never misses a beat, was for many years a percussionist with the Hartford Symphony Orchestra. He finds contentment in long woodland walks and writing poetry that often draws on the natural world and on scientific ideas, from animal life to larger planetary and cosmic patterns. His honors include Rhymezone’s Poetry Contest (2016) co-winner, the Thomas Gray Anniversary Poetry Competition (2014) winner, the Science Fiction Poetry Association’s Poetry Contest (2015) third place, five Pushcart Prize nominations, and a Best of the Net nomination. His latest collection is From Pawprints to Flight Paths: Animal Lives in Verse (Kelsay Books).

This poem appears in Bewildering Stories #1122. His work has also appeared in the anthology Outer Space: 100 Poems (Cambridge University Press) and in the Potcake Chapbooks Careers and Other Catastrophes, Robots and Rockets, and City! Oh City!

Image: “‘SNOWBALL EARTH’ – 640 million years ago” by guano is licensed under CC BY-SA 2.0.

Susan McLean, ‘The Other Woman’

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What makes you think your husband’s what I want?
Does he think that? He’s dumb as mud, if so.
To me, a man’s a fast-food restaurant,
just grab and go. Maybe that hurts to know,
but joints like that are everywhere—and packed.
It’s not a lifetime contract; it’s a meal.
I don’t do long-term. Obstinates attract.
I’m bad for him. He knows. Big fucking deal.

Nobody has a long attention span
these days. So, what do you do when you’re bored?
Binge-watch TV, drink white wine, find a man?
You want security, but feel ignored
and miss that fizz of come what may. Guess what:
we all end up alone. You think you’re not?

*****

Susan McLean writes: “This poem got its start as an entry to a sonnet contest held by the online journal Better Than Starbucks in 2019. It won the contest, appeared in the journal, and was later reprinted in Extreme Sonnets II. I like the dramatic monologue form, and once I thought of the situation, an “other woman” being confronted by the outraged wife of the man she has slept with, the voice of a woman with an attitude just came to me.

“Ironically, the poem’s content was influenced by my experience of teaching students to write essays in a college composition class. One of the subjects I typically had them write about was the obesity epidemic in America, what was causing it, and how the situation might be improved. I was surprised to learn that my students were often angry on being told that fast food might be hurting them. Many of them had been raised on it, loved it, and depended on it because it was what they could afford. They did not want to be informed of how many calories it contained or what it might be doing to their health. But the other influence on the poem was my sympathy for anyone trying to start a relationship in an era of short attention spans, instant gratification, and online dating sites. There’s a lot of loneliness out there, and not just among single people.

“Finally, for me what makes this sonnet work is the underlying humor in what is a very uncomfortable situation. The wife, who initiates the confrontation, seems to want the other woman to back off, but finds that the woman has no particular interest in the husband, and that the husband is only pursuing her because she is not interested in him. The wife is further thrown off balance when the other woman suggests that the two women have more in common than the wife may want to believe. When a clichéd situation doesn’t turn out the way you expect it to, the element of surprise contributes to the humor.”

Susan McLean has two books of poetry, The Best Disguise and The Whetstone Misses the Knife, and one book of translations of Martial, Selected Epigrams. Her poems have appeared in Light, Lighten Up Online, Measure, Able Muse, and elsewhere. She lives in Iowa City, Iowa.
https://www.pw.org/content/susan_mclean

Photo: “The Other Woman” by Professor Bop is licensed under CC BY-NC-ND 2.0.

Sonnet: Amit Majmudar, ‘Homing’

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My parents stacked the best years of their youth as
Bricks to build me. Taught me words I taught
Myself to shout them down with when we fought.
My parents loved me, though I could be ruthless
Hurting myself with things I poured or burned
And those who loved me with the things I said.
My parents never gloated once I learned,
Just held me through my sobs, and kissed my head.

Now, in the living room I stormed out of,
They tell me I can stay the month, or year,
Because my room will never not be here
No matter where I go, or who I love.
I am their blood, they tell me. I depart
From them as blood does from a beating heart.

*****

Amit Majmudar writes: “A homing pigeon knows where its home is by training, as the falcon knows the falconer’s arm. But there are deeper instincts at work in nature that science still struggles to explain fully, like the way birds know how to migrate by looking at the stars, and the way monarch butterflies find their way to the same vast swath of oyamel trees in Mexico every year. Human beings have something of that in them. Not just for the neighborhoods where we grew up, but for the people, the family, who were there with us. This poem is about that. I distinctly recall its writing; I woke up at the “witching hour,” as I often do, while visiting my sister-in-law’s house in Texas over Christmas break. Ten family members were asleep in the same house, and, unable to fall back asleep, I picked up my phone and found an invitation to submit to a new sonnet journal in my inbox. Immediately, still in the awoken, excited, “witching hour” state (which the Indian tradition calls the Hour of Brahma, the time of peak creativity), I wrote this poem about the bond between the far-afield child and the fixed star of family, first line to last.”

‘Homing’ was just published in The Sonneteer which can be accessed at thesonneteer@substack.com. It offers a free, partial service as well as an upgraded paid subscription.

Amit Majmudar’s recent books include Twin A: A Memoir (Slant Books, 2023), The Great Game: Essays on Poetics (Acre Books, 2024), and the hybrid work Three Metamorphoses (Orison Books, 2025). More information about his novels and poetry collections can be found at www.amitmajmudar.com.

““There are many things in life that will catch your eye, but only a few will catch your heart…pursue those.”~Michael Nolan” by katerha is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

My own favourites: Sonnet: RHL, ‘Death Will Be Harsher Now’

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Death will be harsher now, as, year by year,
we solve the clues of immortality:
emotions sink to animality
as false hopes tighten screws of desperate fear.
Hormone control will make age disappear—
after false starts, most horrible to see—
but those already old must beg to be
frozen for the genetic engineer.
While war, starvation, pipe Earth’s gruesome jigs,
successful businessmen will fight to gain
some dead teen’s body, to transplant their brain,
the already-old beg to be guinea-pigs.
Children, look back, hear our despairing cry:
we bred immortals, but we had to die!

*****

I wrote this poem on 3 January 1982 – twenty years before I began to get poems published. (Formal verse was an almost absolute no-no in late 20th century magazines… although consistently taught and highly praised in schools and universities, of course.) It was finally published in Ambit in October 2007 – the magazine started and managed for 50 years by Martin Bax and the stomping ground of J.G. Ballard, Ralph Steadman, Carol Ann Duffy, etc.

In April 2018 the poem was reprinted in Bewildering Stories, an online weekly headquartered in Guelph, Ontario; and in 2024 I accepted Maryann Corbett‘s suggestion to change the title and first line and instead of “harder” use the word “harsher”… the earlier word incorrectly suggesting that we might be finding it more difficult to achieve death.

The ideas behind the poem were not new to science fiction, but were less common in formal verse. The ideas continue to inch their way towards reality; continue to be explored in popular culture (Piraro, Futurama…); and in the last 44 years I have continued to explore SF and existential themes in verse.


Cartoon: “piraro brain transplant” by Dreaming in the deep south is licensed under CC BY 2.0.