OK. Here's a Chiastic Sonnet. If it doesn'tmake sense that shows a. how Modernist, or even Post-Modernist, I have become b. the active reader makes his own sense. it was originally inspired by the moreimpanetrable poetry of Peter Porter, God bless him, and who borrowed my Porter book and DIDN'T GIVE IT BACK.
Thou verse thief, pincher of my Porter,
No longer steal the name of mate
Who sinned the sin he didn't oughter.
I curse thee, thee excoriate.
That's not the sonnet but it contains some fine chiasms and also some choice archaisms to tie it to another thread. Here is the sonnet.
Chiastic Sonnet
Just when the doctors dreamed they might be winning
A war on several fronts with those diseases
That threaten my longevity, the squeeze is
Renewed in spades. My letterbox starts grinning.
Time to shut up the chateau, tell the servants
Just how they can all fuck off. Our hero grew
From zero, now he’s fingered for a coshing.
I fear it’s time to take in people’s washing,
To meditate on memories of you
And get a book religion's strict observance.
I'm an old tart on tour. I’ve left off binning
Brochures again (though past it now, by Jesus)
So what do you like? Is it sights or sands or skis? Is
The Great Pyramid more than money-spinning?
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