Mortaine’s Blog

Somehow, this ended up being rather unflattering, though still quite true.

This is also the first sonnet I’ve attempted since learning the form.

“Work in progress”

I suppose it’s not any detriment,
No handicap or flaw, that I should be
Awash with so many accomplishments,
Adorning my wall to dazzle by decree.
Some call me prideful, also arrogant
But I am merely a soul more honest
Than all my critics– gossips and truants!–
Who dare defame me as “no great artist.”
No critical eye ought dare to profane
The genius of my words that blot this page.
That’s my text, my work, my mind, and my fame!
These phillistines, all, shall know my outrage!
Don’t laugh at my poison words that address
Their taunts and jeers– I’m a work in progress.

–Stephanie Bryant, April 9, 2003

Note: Cross-posted to as well.

I’m working on a sonnet for this week’s .

Work in progress

I suppose it’s not to my detriment,
It speaks not so unwell, that I should be
So full of so many accomplishments,
To hang on my walls, brighter by degrees.
Some call me prideful, also arrogant
But I am merely a soul more honest
Than all my critics– gossips and truants!–
Who dare defame me as “no great artist.”
But back in the quiet places of mind,
I sense unsteady, uneasy repose
And set my teeth ‘gainst the looming deadline
A battle with hubris, I must suppose.
Bleary, I weaken, and thus I confess.
Perhaps I remain a work in progress.