Today I read Claude McKay's sonnets. The Harlem Renaissance poet.

Then I was feeling blue. So I wrote one (a sonnet with no attention to stresses at all):

My friends, this is such a horrible time
of year. I think I do hate Thanksgiving.
Nothing decent to celebrate, and I’m
just here, writing, not planning on leaving
to see anyone, because they’re having
their own holidays with their loved ones, look
I’m not complaining, I’ll keep believing
some thing better is coming and I’ll cook
some rice and beans and surf around Facebook
look at pics and all the late night poses;
wait, that’s not my good side, no wait I shook
a bit (by the way I don’t like roses).
So I just wrote my first sonnet alone.
I’ll still come over, just call my cell phone.

And then someone just called me, so I am going out. Ah, bad unrevised poetry. The best!

1 comentario:

CarmenSays dijo...

For you, one of my favorite wordmeisters, from Neruda's Oda al Libro (II):

que se deslizan como
suaves uvas
o que a la luz estallan
como gérmenes ciegos
que esperaron
en las bodegas del
y viven otra vez y dan la
una vez más el corazón las

Happy Thanksgiving, Juanito.