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I'm on an iambic roll today--in Advanced Creative Writing, I finished the Sirius-POV companion to the Remus poem (yet another ghetto sonnet--even more ghetto, since this doesn't have any rhyme scheme at all and is simply blank verse). I may end up having to turn it in tomorrow, since, thanks to our one-submission-long packet this week, Prof. Tretheway has told us to submit three things this week. Or I could submit the ghetto-sonnet about how much I dislike writting haiku (told y'all I was on an iambic roll). Anyway, here's the Sirius sonnet:
There was a time, once, when I did not know
That one, deep, ice cold straight in the North Sea
Was really a salt-water River Styx,
Where Charon takes a coin that is not gold,
And that, when Milton wrote that men in Hell
Can dip their hands in Lethe, but not drink
And know the peace that loss of memory brings,
He was more truthful than, perhaps, he knew.
That Hell holds neither coals nor lakes of fire,
But is, just as the Norse thought, dark and cold,
And the only light that fills that damp-walled realm
Serves not to brighten, but to pick out sins.
There was a time I did not know these things,
But now, I do not think I can forget.
There was a time, once, when I did not know
That one, deep, ice cold straight in the North Sea
Was really a salt-water River Styx,
Where Charon takes a coin that is not gold,
And that, when Milton wrote that men in Hell
Can dip their hands in Lethe, but not drink
And know the peace that loss of memory brings,
He was more truthful than, perhaps, he knew.
That Hell holds neither coals nor lakes of fire,
But is, just as the Norse thought, dark and cold,
And the only light that fills that damp-walled realm
Serves not to brighten, but to pick out sins.
There was a time I did not know these things,
But now, I do not think I can forget.
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