The week is off to a tortuous start for Bryntin, as I am sure it is for many others, starting as it does with a Monday and coming straight after ending on a Sunday last week.
Particularly tortuous for Bryntin on this particular Monday though, is finding that his Official Terrible Poetry Post entry this week was required to be a sonnet. Which meant he had to go and look up what a sonnet was.
Bryntin is not exactly of the literary, or any other sort of educashun, that would allow him to recall the details of what exactly that was from his long past school days and, with him not being particularly aware of reading any works of that description – even though they may have been for all he knew – wanted to make sure he was at least providing one correctly constructed element of the challenge.
Also, it was meant to be themed on Love, on the flimsy premise that we are close to Valentines day.
Most things to do with Valentines are indeed based on a flimsy premise. If Bryntin is at all passionate about anything, he hates Valentines day with that passion.
Actually, he is probably overstating that a bit. Obviously Valentines is an occasion of some sort that must come and go for everyone else annually, like Christmas and Easter and Birthdays, but he tries very hard not to take a blind bit of notice of it as much as he doesn’t those either.
Mrs Bryntin did opine that, since his stroke, Bryntin didn’t have a chance at doing anything ‘lovey-dovey’, as he appears not to have a sentimental bone in his body.
He doesn’t know all the names of the bones in the body, so he’s very impressed that she knows that he hasn’t got a sentimental one.
So anyway, Bryntin learned that a sonnet, traditionally, is one of those syllable and rhythm structured things that goes all iambic pentamenamenamanar, should carry a 10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10-10 syllable construction in fourteen lines and a rhyming scheme that is about the first seven letters of the alphabet all mixed up in various ABAB etc combinations.
He’s sure you’ll get the hang of it. And pretty certain that he won’t.
my ears assailed, your comments so cruel
in my head I can question my own name
its not the satnav who you overrule
you get jealous of the voice they call jane
and so you may explore the world my love
bravely taking strange roads in our motor
me never knowing the heading, sort of
to the sounds of my poetry quota
for you I recite some favourite keats
or try some sonnets from the bard shakespeare
let it travel, sent with love twixt the seats
if it deters you from slapping my ear
we smile, home, I dare not to sabotage
car, at last, nice and warm in the garage
Bryntin requests that, if you do read between the lines, that whatever you come up with is your own because he had enough trouble staying disciplined enough to write the actual lines to be worried about what you’ll be doing with it in your twisted little minds. Thank you.
Note: There used to be a bit of text down here that encouraged readers to share anything Bryntin writes that they thought was good or made them laugh.
Bryntin has realised that not many bothered much with that so he has replaced that paragraph with this long bit of alternative text, in the form of one very long sentence, which actually doesn’t make any point at all except to make you pretty annoyed that, if you have made the effort to read this far, you have now found it was actually just a complete waste of your time. Thank you.