Whenever I see how cerebral sonneteers seem to be—at least to me—, I remember what E.A. Poe says in his essay The Philosophy of Composition (1846): “Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem,” and has nothing to do with truth (or passion, he says). Some will say a sonnet is just too concerned with logic or reason, or truth. But truth can be beautiful.

A sonnet is a complex composition, but somehow it makes it easier for the composer to convey his ideas and feelings regarding some topic which deeply moves him; the elevation of the soul produced by the contemplation of the beautiful can also be aroused by a state which some may want to call Nirvana, a sense of deep realization which makes us see through.

A sonnet states an argument in fourteen lines. I know it sounds dry, but luckily my piece will provide some juicy food for thought.

The Taste of Difference

                                 Taste never met a partner to debate
                                 how bad or good a flavor or a favor.
                                 ’Tis brain’s engagement more than the heart’s labor,
                                 or so intellect has it in its plate.
                                 Sense education makes us to elate,
                                 as deviations shall well make us quaver;
                                 in so rejecting proven misbehavers,
                                 we fall for fitter chance and bite the bait.

                                 Had we had chances new for different stories,
                                 where stupor wallows deep in alien dew,
                                 where honey tastes too sweet and gilt means nothing,
                                 should we still trust our wisdom turned to glories?
                                 Will anyone be willing to review
                                 what keeps us stuck and fixed in our bluffing?

Thanks for reading.