The blood flows first—pulsating, urgent—then seeks
its vessel, this architecture chiselled in words
to contain what cannot be contained. Experience
breaks
the silence, directs the pen, demanding shape. Not rules inerrant
from dusty volumes, not the tyranny of tradition
measuring this pulse against some ancient category—
but this and only this: the blood letting of living
calling for its own container.
Words rise and fall and flow like spring water finding
its own level,
wearing channels through the limestone of language
on it course to river’s end.
The sonnet emerges only as fourteen lines
can hold this abundance. Free verse
unfolds because thoughts
refuse such
boundaries.
Form follows feeling like shadow follows flesh,
but not as master, as faithful servant
giving allegiance to the democracy of human experience.

 

28/6/2025