In Which I Commit Sonnet

I am no poet. But over at Making Light they're having a free-for-all of sonnets in honor of William Shakespeare's birthday. And I was weak, and gave in.

Not Oxford, Bacon, or some other bloke:
The sonneteer, the playwright and the soul,
The bell that down the centuries does toll,
Was you, sweet Will, our literary oak.
I'm sorry for the doubters and the dopes
Who ponder how a yokel from the sticks
Could understand how vile Iago ticks
Or what could put poor Hamlet on the ropes.
Lack they imagination? Do they think
That nurture's all and nature not so much?
That noble feelings need a noble's touch,
That poetry must have a missing link?
This "Shakespeare wasn't writ by Shakespeare" shit?
I say it's spinach, and to hell with it.

Also: apologies to Wm. Steig, whose iconic line I stole appropriated.

Really Awful Words

But about 1700 of them written today. They're terrible, dreadful words, and will have to be ironed, chastised, and beaten into shape. But the damned chapter, which I had begun to think would never end, is finished for now. Chapter the next looms ahead. Whew.