Sonnet for WCW
by Todd Thorpe
[ poetry - august 08 ]
William Carlos Williams thought the sonnet
Dead, a poem's a machine made of words.
Memory is a thing measured in words. Forget
Form. The moment's radiant gist endures
Printed on a page. Words are things that matter,
World making things, not some vague ideal
Type,
but sharp, limned like a Sheeler picture.
Frame the scene without metaphor, make it real
Make it new by leaving it as it is:
Gods in the dust or a Mexican bridge,
Asphodel. Truth of objects and artifice.
Poet touch those whose lives are so damaged
Words fail them, nearly returned to Nature,
Mute Breughel peasants, waiting for their Author.
