A Spenserian Sonnet (this one's for you, Mom!)

The Sonnet by William Malready

It is that time of year again in my AP classroom. That's right: sonnet season. I have lifted my rod, the Red Sea of poetry has parted, and my students are tremulously stepping foot into the riverbed of sonnet-dom. (I know that analogy is a stretch, but go with me.) Their assignment was to read Edmund Spenser's Sonnet 1 and Sonnet 75 of his sonnet sequence Amoretti. Then, going word-for-word through his rhyme scheme and using Spenser's same line endings, they were to compose their own sonnet, 14 lines of Iambic Pentameter, Ed Spenser-style. 

Being the lover of all things poetic, but especially sonnets, I could not resist the opportunity to write my own. And having written the sonnet, why in the world would I not share it on the Isle with you? (Have I mentioned how very gracious you are?) So without further ado, I offer you my Spenserian sonnet which I dedicate to my creative, courageous, and captivating mom.

My Mother’s Hands

My hands look just like my mother’s strong hands

Which have lived and sewn and worked with such might

That the tough skin swells ‘gainst her wedding bands

And her fingernails are a sorry sight.

As a child I saw her sit in lamp light,

Her spectacled eyes giving such a look

At her hands, their work, at the reverent spright

With which they turned the page of the aged book,

Her bible, resting in her lap. The brook-

Sound of pages rustling ever is

In this child’s memory. So I look

At my hands. I am awash in new bliss.

Fingers, palms, all a reminder: alone

I will never be. Regrets, I have none.