For a while there it looked as if I wasn’t going to make my sonnet quota this year, but here’s the last one, just ahead of deadline. I was tossing up whether to write about my increasing deafness, or Yoko Ono’s exhibition at the MCA, or the way Eleanor Caron’s Booker prize-winning novel The Luminaries is getting so little promotion in the end-of-year lists in newspapers and bookshop reading guides. I settled for this:
Sonnet 14: November ends
I shopped, I read, I went to movies,
played with children, watched TV,
rode a train with weary juvies,
helped add a show to P’s CV,
stood in rain for climate action,
faced computer death distraction,
ruminated on the news,
tried to formulate some views:
all grist for my November rhyming
fourteen lines in Pushkin’s ways,
fourteen times in thirty days.
An hour to spare – precision timing –
I’ve got them done. Perhaps next year
the form of Petrarch, or Shakespeare.