I've written five or six sonnets in this latest frenzy. So far one or two have seemed slightly shallow to me; one or two slightly better. Sonnet 5 below is highly topical, given that I'm writing this post on the eve of the Referendum. I think I'm quite pleased with it. It doesn't sound too trite to my ear.
The tide’s edge where, lurking between the ebb
and flow, flip-flop between each absolute,
this moment when affairs become acute,
you lounge on your divan with your Black Leb.
At least you’re reading up on politics:
Ryan, who lectured you at UCL.
You really thought tonight you might as well
Here, history bifurcates. Some ratchet clicks.
That slouching beast of Yeats, or evil twin
of beast, pauses for breath in Beit Sahour.
Rancour develops between fastest friends,
fools prick eachother’s effigies with pins.
Someone like Kissinger extends a claw,
and Eliott’s whimper signals when it ends.