So, I’ve been experimenting with sonnets, just to see how hard it might be. The verdict: Sonnets are very hard. It makes me appreciate Shakespeare on a different level. Here are two of my attempts.
Back then I could pronounce their names, the ones
They called themselves, each one different.
We walked together ‘neath a single sun;
I had nothing for to be repentant.
This loss, of all things, most grieves my conscience:
With my first taste of flesh, I was transformed.
My ears closed up, and I lost the nuance
Of animal speech and the voice inside storms.
Now, the high-lonesome wind just sounds forlorn
And I’ve forgotten the words to the birds’ songs.
My woman mostly looks at me in scorn,
between us a distance many words long.
Sometimes I think I almost understand
The ragged sparrow who still finds my hand.
My husband was obsessed with gods and names—
“An oak,” he’d say, pointing. He called me Eve.
From him I learned to sniff for rain
Which was god, he said, as was breeze.
We did in those days just as we pleased,
And met the gods for supper once a week.
Adam milked the goats, I made the cheese;
In time our eyes grew bright, our bellies sleek.
But as the days unspooled I came to think
That there was something crucial we yet lacked
And also lacked the name for such a thing.
Restless, tetchy, I stepped out back
And—Oh!—the sweetness of that forbidden fruit!
To know the thing I was. To learn the truth.