He’s not sure why he has this urge to write—
Perhaps it’s just compulsion. Maybe still
It’s all a futile wish to match the skill
Of those old masters of poetic flight
That keeps him weighing, night by sleepless night,
Each word, each syllable, each stress, until,
Dawn’s chiding beams into his ponderings spill.
And though he never may attain that height
Of fame those bards acquired, taking his wing
In ever-upward flight as flawlessly
Above the Helicon mountain’s sacred spring,
He still can know that rare delight to see
His own creations take on form and hue—
That very same delight those masters knew.
by Paul Fraleigh, first published in The Sonnet Scroll of the Poetry Porch
Editor’s Note: For those of us who struggle with words and rhyme, the sentiment expressed in this sonnet rings quite familiar.