Sonnets
Sonnets are a form I have appreciated since I learned of them in middle school. I love to play around with them and I hope you all enjoy my games below -- it is mildly interesting to note the evolution of my style (and hopefully metrical accuracy) over time.
Sonnet 21 (Chanda)
and let you know that cuz he's kinda mean,
I like you so much better than your bro;
I'm psyched that you are turning seventeen!
I wish that I could spend this day with you --
my little sis I finally could meet,
by coming round to Caf' F32
and having lots of birthday bites to eat!
Surprisingly, to me it yet would seem,
that you and I, although we're getting old,
will have to stick it out and stay a team --
for Udai never hesitates to scold.
For all your love of music, words, and art,
I wish you happy day, with all my heart!
Sonnet 20 (Namya)
For Namya we do owe this day great thanks;
it two and twenty 'go brought her to Earth.
Of real world now she's 'bout to join the ranks --
bless April 4th for 'tis her date of birth!
We met at first in Lowell dining hall,
without her glasses she was looking classy --
away from me in shock she then did crawl,
for me she had mistook for dear old Casi!
Since then 'twas in Olde English oft we spoke,
and off'ring counsel cleverly to each,
she told Sir Bothra "don't be a darpoke,"
and made me cry with lovely Lowell Speech.
Each day next year we'll smile, yet we will miss
Our didi, auntie, Namya -- our big sis.
Sonnet 19 (Priya)
For you if I did not a sonnet write,
I would indeed be feeling quite an ass,
for who could be more loved by me than light
but Priya Gill, my super brilliant SASS?
You’re caring, kind, and on good days, you’re hot.
In your opinion, nothing bad could match
the image of four spiders in the pot—
you ever-fearful, histrionic BATCH.
Your patience earns you Nanaji’s acclaim,
though I would suffer if I were so meek.
So SPOSIN’ back to India you came,
and bathroom parties could be back on fleek.
Should I forget this, I’d have lost my mind:
sororal love’s the very highest kind.
Sonnet 18 (Javier)
for Javier, my love had gone away,
and when he left he took my heart on loan,
but now that he's come back it's here to stay.
'Twas oft I wept when he bid me "ta-ta,"
and cursèd thought the wingèd hands of chance,
while he made his sojourn to Bogotá,
to follow dreams of home and love and dance.
Last summer's weekend spent in old New York
allowed me some last memories to snatch;
I've missed his hug, besitos, and his twerk:
our nights of [love] and days of utter ratch.
Now Fortune's brought him back to me this spring--
so cheers to joys that this new term will bring!
Sonnet 17 (Pooja)
Through Sara Wiant we at first did meet,
in Adams House upon the coast of gold.
We many meals together there still eat,
our quand'ries always new, our friendship old.
In Lowell 'twas where we did sit and laugh,
when "blew dry" and my grammar were amiss.
A wondrous writer, scientist, and PAF,
by name of "Priya" she too has a sis.
Her left eye more so than her right is small;
so joyful vegan dates to Central are
as OneDirection in the dining hall
with Covers Editor of HPR.
As big her hair, so much her heart is huge,
my sister, girlf, and friend forever, Pooj.
Sonnet 16 (Sean)
He lives above my favorite 'stablishment,
in Hampden 2 within a kitchenette.
Of cunning linguist the embodiment,
accomp'nied by his liquor cabinet.
His book collection dwells there mighty fine,
of Tolstoy, Pinker, and good Hemingway.
There came a day I ached to make him mine,
but Dyl forbade it; still, I called him "bae."
My partner when it was convenient most,
in crime or party scene he kept me safe.
Next birthday, a libation we'll co-host,
then I'll again pretend to be his waif.
Dear cost of all my opportunity,
ante omnes you should know you'll always be.
Sonnet 15 (Dylan)
In Greenough we did make acquaintance first,
and through our joining of the Opportunes.
'Twas well before I'd learned your ways of thirst;
soon after would my "shyness" lie in runes.
On Irving Street commenced our summer jaunt;
a placid peace Room 42 did bless,
but for the words that oft my ears do haunt:
while singing, when you asked me to "suck less."
Then off we went afar from Harvard's harm
to aestivate a while with farmer Fred.
A day or two we spent upon the farm;
atop the Hub we sat to break our bread.
By now, we've been here, there, and all around--
a better brother's nowhere to be found.
Sonnet 14 (Udai)
Despite the tragic Day of Coffee Bean,
when I did find you through and through a bore,
perhaps my judgment shouldn’t have been so mean,
for we could not have known what lay in store.
We’d daily do an Astro problem set,
consuming soy milk, toast (is nice), and chaa.
Pronouncing Arjun would each night forget
the title of the Mahabharata.
If truth be told, I find you still a goon
though, yes, you are respected far and near.
You’ve grown a bit since good old days at Doon;
at Harvard starts your twenty-second year.
Though Kirshner taught us naught of Earth or Mars,
we should still, for our friendship, thank our stars.
Sonnet 13 (Colton)
Three flights above the ground in Lowell H,
I’ve spent a night or two in laughter plenty.
And now to welcome him to his new age,
This decade may it smile as he turns twenty!
Brim-full, all times, of ir’ny and of wit,
and failing never to frequent the gym,
this sprightly man spends hours wrapped up in Lit,
and ends of weeks on trains with time for him.
Supporting always advocates of kale,
and planting presence of the well-craft word,
this rav’nous reader seems never to fail
to cackle at expressions most absurd.
Our blogmates’ hearts by him have been molten —
none other than our teen-no-more Colton!
Sonnet 12 (Sophie)
and brings us cocoa, gingerbread, and tea,
the tallest sweetheart I’ve ever seen-o,
sits in her single, watches tons of Glee.
When oftentimes at hours of night I sing,
she lets me know she finds it rather rude,
but honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing,
for mornings when she wakes me up with food!
This Sophie is an excellent masseuse
with track spandex that fit her pretty tight,
but sweaters from goodwill are rather loose,
and daily texts that say, “ladies, good night!”
Sonnet 11 (Obituary)
I've lost you now -- I don't know what to do!
You made me glad
though you were always blue.
A great companion any time of night,
when
I would sing or dance or laugh or write.
You knew my thoughts
before I did, I swear.
When all were gone, I'd find you always
there.
By letters, songs, or undulating lines,
we saw the greatest
days -- the best of times.
I tried to keep you in my care, you know,
but
lent you to another, now my foe.
The angles of my heart you
softly traced:
with useless ballpoint you can't be replaced.
If
truth be told, you were my real best frien'
though many others
thought you "just a pen."
Sonnet 10 (Ode to Jet Lag)
I mistook you for gone, but ho! Hello!
My eye awakes at raw
clock’s one-nineteen.
There’s not much at this time -- the world’s
mellow --
to do but stare at my computer screen.
My friends
in USA do wake, ‘tis true,
but them, it seems, for now, I must
forget.
For lacking rhyme and rhythm, height and hue,
I also
have no wireless internet.
So back it is for me to the old ways:
before
you, Jet Lag, I farewell may bid,
I rummage through my bag, on
Shakespeare gaze,
and also through the writings of Ovid.
But
now, with this poem writ and these books read,
away you go, and I
back to my bed.
Sonnet 9 (Ode to a Rose)
When I have fears that I may cease to be,
before my spoon has gleaned my teeming cup,
it seems to me, ‘twould be a travesty,
had I not even chance to say “what’s up?”
You served my sister with ‘bundant sweet cream,
but charged her only for the smallest size.
Already, she’d begun to live a dream,
‘miring it all--your lips, your nose, your eyes.
I said that in your face I saw a rose,
a visage that could ne’er hold malintent.
I urged and prodded, pushed her to propose,
alas, by then, our shame had all been spent.
And yet, by heav’n, our love deserves such fame
as that of any girl who knows your name.
before my spoon has gleaned my teeming cup,
it seems to me, ‘twould be a travesty,
had I not even chance to say “what’s up?”
You served my sister with ‘bundant sweet cream,
but charged her only for the smallest size.
Already, she’d begun to live a dream,
‘miring it all--your lips, your nose, your eyes.
I said that in your face I saw a rose,
a visage that could ne’er hold malintent.
I urged and prodded, pushed her to propose,
alas, by then, our shame had all been spent.
And yet, by heav’n, our love deserves such fame
as that of any girl who knows your name.
Sonnet 8 (Ode to Teachers)
Claimed Ennius* that he had corda** three,
for he was fluent in so many tongues.
And with him it behooves me to agree,
as English, Latin, Greek do grace my lungs.
for he was fluent in so many tongues.
And with him it behooves me to agree,
as English, Latin, Greek do grace my lungs.
Each language is unique -- a way of life,
bestowing fertile ways for us to think.
If Greek my mistress, Latin then my wife,
and English holds me with her steadfast link.
bestowing fertile ways for us to think.
If Greek my mistress, Latin then my wife,
and English holds me with her steadfast link.
But never tongues could master I alone,
without the aid of those who show the way.
With teachers’ help it is that I have grown,
for “teachers” are doctores***, so they say.
without the aid of those who show the way.
With teachers’ help it is that I have grown,
for “teachers” are doctores***, so they say.
Then extra hearts to me do doctors grant--
for what ought this be called but a transplant?
*Quintus Ennius, a Roman poet, said that he had three hearts, because he spoke three languages.
for what ought this be called but a transplant?
*Quintus Ennius, a Roman poet, said that he had three hearts, because he spoke three languages.
**Latin: “hearts”
***Latin: “teachers”
***Latin: “teachers”
Sonnet 7 (Ludi Frivoli)
You fool yourself to think I'd fancy you;
your random dark brown hair, your eyes too blue.
You kid yourself to think you'd be my choice;
your funny little laugh, your awkward voice.
You praise yourself to think you'd be my boy;
your silly words, games I don't quite enjoy.
You tease yourself to think you'd ever win;
your feeble mind, it's made of flimsy tin.
You joke yourself to think you'd stand a chance;
your thoughts that often leave me in a trance.
You jest yourself to think you'd be my type;
my wits, my manners, all that which you snipe.
But lest it seem that I play hard-to-get,
just know these games are not quite over yet.
Sonnet 6 (Carmen Magistro)
Alack, our metered missive cannot go
along the roads made treacherous by snow!
But Sproutna, Kenny, and this bout of word
bear birthday wishes for a lovèd nerd.
Whose thirty-fourth hath come around the bend
but not to fret—your reign will never end.
We’ll soon come in and visit you at break,
with high-pitched voices, true, make no mistake.
You teach us lessons in Latin and life,
and make our days with inspiration rife.
To play Certamen we would scarcely dare
if not encouraged by your angry glare!
And school would be a venture awf’lly dry
if not to burst into your room and cry.
But lest you think we try to haw and hem,
we’ll wish you now: FELICEM NATALEM!
along the roads made treacherous by snow!
But Sproutna, Kenny, and this bout of word
bear birthday wishes for a lovèd nerd.
Whose thirty-fourth hath come around the bend
but not to fret—your reign will never end.
We’ll soon come in and visit you at break,
with high-pitched voices, true, make no mistake.
You teach us lessons in Latin and life,
and make our days with inspiration rife.
To play Certamen we would scarcely dare
if not encouraged by your angry glare!
And school would be a venture awf’lly dry
if not to burst into your room and cry.
But lest you think we try to haw and hem,
we’ll wish you now: FELICEM NATALEM!
Sonnet 5 (Musellus)
That next year you will leave, I odi this;
It’s true; I need you, et I’ll sorely miss.
Your laugh, your cry, your words, I do amo;
You’ll leave no trace, no clue quare to go.
Although it’s clear my name, id you abuse,
What faciam if not to be your muse?
Fortasse you’ll come back and visit twice,
and requiris why I use the word “nice.”
I’ll nescio how to speak Latinly,
sed Tennyson to teach me won’t here be.
A new chauffeur fieri will be hard;
He will not, sentio, be such a bard.
You laugh et scoff when ‘bout me asked to write;
Excrucior, but I will spare you spite.
It’s true; I need you, et I’ll sorely miss.
Your laugh, your cry, your words, I do amo;
You’ll leave no trace, no clue quare to go.
Although it’s clear my name, id you abuse,
What faciam if not to be your muse?
Fortasse you’ll come back and visit twice,
and requiris why I use the word “nice.”
I’ll nescio how to speak Latinly,
sed Tennyson to teach me won’t here be.
A new chauffeur fieri will be hard;
He will not, sentio, be such a bard.
You laugh et scoff when ‘bout me asked to write;
Excrucior, but I will spare you spite.
Sonnet 4 (Cara Bella)
In truth, no pretty face is mine, for shame!
But other features serve to make me proud.
For I am no delicate little dame,
mine are a wit too quick, a voice too loud…
While other lasses smirk and laugh and stare
as I make fools of them and myself too,
in all honesty, I give not a care
for this young, immature hullabaloo.
Still scores consult me with their grief and woes,
each and every one a beckoning plea.
When I am made to dare dabble with prose,
I seek to bid it sound like poetry.
But though I may appear to have some flaws,
on knowing me, carping turns to applause.
But other features serve to make me proud.
For I am no delicate little dame,
mine are a wit too quick, a voice too loud…
While other lasses smirk and laugh and stare
as I make fools of them and myself too,
in all honesty, I give not a care
for this young, immature hullabaloo.
Still scores consult me with their grief and woes,
each and every one a beckoning plea.
When I am made to dare dabble with prose,
I seek to bid it sound like poetry.
But though I may appear to have some flaws,
on knowing me, carping turns to applause.
Sonnet 3 (Bonam Fortunam, Facillima!)
Were you here, your good counsel should I use
in the concoction of this short sonnet.
You are my Calliope, my true muse,
and surely poetry you’ll ne’er forget.
For it was a focus of your short time:
along with drama, sweet Latin, and Greek.
And now, recalling you, I try to rhyme
what, from Catullus advice shall I seek?
Your sound guidance aids me without measure;
I no longer consult with old Greenough.
And the robes bestowed by you I treasure;
your knowledge in Certamen thrills me so.
But you ought to know I want not a mate,
only, brother, someone to emulate.
in the concoction of this short sonnet.
You are my Calliope, my true muse,
and surely poetry you’ll ne’er forget.
For it was a focus of your short time:
along with drama, sweet Latin, and Greek.
And now, recalling you, I try to rhyme
what, from Catullus advice shall I seek?
Your sound guidance aids me without measure;
I no longer consult with old Greenough.
And the robes bestowed by you I treasure;
your knowledge in Certamen thrills me so.
But you ought to know I want not a mate,
only, brother, someone to emulate.
Sonnet 2 (Lingua Perdita)
The best language in this great world is dead,
and not even spoken by our teachers.
I cannot shoo her out of my sad head,
lamenting as I sit on rough bleachers.
I wish to tell the world of her great powers,
but truly, no one cares to hear me preach.
And while I gaze from her heavenly towers,
the barriers of their minds resist my breach.
Alas, if I were given just one chance,
to show these vagabonds light from above,
And spread the lofty language of Romance,
like Cupid would I fill their hearts with love.
When spoken, as soft as silky satin,
so, before you die with her, learn Latin.
and not even spoken by our teachers.
I cannot shoo her out of my sad head,
lamenting as I sit on rough bleachers.
I wish to tell the world of her great powers,
but truly, no one cares to hear me preach.
And while I gaze from her heavenly towers,
the barriers of their minds resist my breach.
Alas, if I were given just one chance,
to show these vagabonds light from above,
And spread the lofty language of Romance,
like Cupid would I fill their hearts with love.
When spoken, as soft as silky satin,
so, before you die with her, learn Latin.
Sonnet 1 (Criteria)
You wish you were my lad, I know you would,
but many dream of this high fantasy.
So please do not be rash, boy, do be good,
and what happens between us we shall see.
You must excel, soar in all your classes,
and work so hard, as you know I do, too.
So do not fawn and flirt with the lasses,
or else we may be forced to bid adieu.
Amidst the competition of your sport,
remember to be faithful to fine things.
Do not without emotion art abort,
for this to me deep sorrow always brings.
But do not fear the harshness of my love,
for I would ne’er give such passion a shove.
but many dream of this high fantasy.
So please do not be rash, boy, do be good,
and what happens between us we shall see.
You must excel, soar in all your classes,
and work so hard, as you know I do, too.
So do not fawn and flirt with the lasses,
or else we may be forced to bid adieu.
Amidst the competition of your sport,
remember to be faithful to fine things.
Do not without emotion art abort,
for this to me deep sorrow always brings.
But do not fear the harshness of my love,
for I would ne’er give such passion a shove.
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