84. Production Line

(I’ve been reading Robert Lowell – see also
77 Blinkered for more of the background.)

You drive the sonnet treadmill, have no choice.
Two solid months, at more than one a day,
you’re working to be honest, stay in touch
across an ocean, while love runs berserk.
Sonnet means unified, compact. No rhymes,
and you suspect that old iambic drum –
although you play it brilliantly.
You fight the tyranny of tum-ti-tum,
told Heaney he should rough things up. The voice
can’t be that neat and tidy, given the way
life’s brutal, manic, unresolved. At times
you check with friends – do they see what you see?
Bishop suggests Art isn’t worth that much
but you don’t want to listen. Back to work.