As long as we are sharing sonnets by living masters...
I love this one by X.J. Kennedy, its superb harnassing of form and function. (The meter in Heaven, where "nothing functions as it ought," is delightfully rubato, and even the just-right off rimes occur in an asymetrical pattern; Hell, appropriately lurking underneath, is slick and perfect as clock work.) I think he may have tinkered with it (I hope not, though) since this version, which I got out of my beloved "The Sonnet: An Anthology" edited by Bender and Squier.
Apologies if this has appeared in Musings on Mastery before.
Nothing in Heaven Functions As It Ought
Nothing in Heaven functions as it ought:
Peter's bifocals, blindly sat on, crack;
His gates lurch wide with the cackle of a cock,
Not turn with a hush of gold as Milton had thought;
Gangs of the slaughtered innocents keep huffing
The nimbus off the Venerable Bede
Like that of an old dandelion gone to seed;
And the beatific choir keep breaking up, coughing.
But Hell, sleek Hell hath no freewheeling part:
None takes his own sweet time, none quickens pace,
Ask anyone, How came you here, poor heart?--
And he will slot a quarter through his face,
You'll hear an instant click, a tear will start
Imprinted with an abstract of his case.
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