SONNET TO A SONGWRITER
I decided to write a sonnet to the so-often unsung heros of music, the composers, or songwriters. I tried put words to the process of creating a song, or what I would imagine the process would be like.
This is a Shakespearean sonnet in iambic pentameter with a rhyme scheme of abab cdcd efef gg. It’s basically a rewrite of the previous poem of the same name. The original is at the bottom of this post.
Very interested in hearing feedback of any kind on it.
What name shall crown this air, borne fresh from air
Fragrant, infused by Muse with joy to be
Misted questions posed in timeless despair
Folly turned fair, bedecked whims spun, seem free
For hearts, once lead, shall rise to beat, not quitting
Witch tree on which your woes, loosened, be shooed
Which sea to dive to bring up pearls befitting
Lyrics for which the sun and moon be wooed
Plucking notes from seasoned aesthete’s garden
Union’s flavor presents begging to savor
Ears taste the song, aural intake heartens
Adored psalm tweaked, ready to sing for favor
Muse’ child, ignored, injured, withers, and dies —
or heard and liked gives lift… to hit zone and flies
Original post and poem:
Fandango’s FOWC is compose. Word of the Day Challenge is bedeck. What came to mind is writing a sonnet to the so-often unsung heros of music, the composers, or songwriters. Honoring Shakespeare in the first line, as this is a Shakespearean sonnet, I tried put words to the process of creating a song, or what I would imagine the process would be like. At the bottom of the post is a link to Rolling Stone’s The Hundred Greatest Songwriters of All Time.
What will I title thee, air pulled from air
Sprung whole from Muse’s dispersed alchemy
Nebulized questions of timeless despair
Niggling bedeckment of mood’s soiled laundry
Which skeleton will you swirl through, dear ditty
Witch tree on which your name will be tattooed
Which sea dived to bring up pearls befitting
Velvet yards, sequined bodice, and gilt shoed
Tiptoe-ing melody’s secret orchard
Seasoned discerning for curried savor
Tweaked felicity, lest aural torture
Glorious Frankenstein now seeks favor
Love’s infant abandoned, languishes, dies —
or adored, and coos, crawls, walks, runs…. then flies.
I don’t agree or disagree with the list, and of the listed, I don’t necessarily agree with the ordering. The reality is that these are 100 people out of millions of songwriters. On the list or not songwriters have my undying respect and appreciation. Here’s to YOU, songwriter.