Milton’s sonnet is a far cry from the flourishing and romantic language seen in Shakespeare.  Instead, Milton uses the sonnet to release his anger against God for his loss of eyesight during the prime of his life.  The sestet is a reflection of that emotion; Milton uses the sonnet as a way to externalize his feelings in order to examine and understand them.

It is important to understand that the great writers’ of the past laid the foundations of how good sonnet composition is accomplished, but their topics and methods are in no way the definitive manner in which you should conduct your poetry writing.  As proven with Milton and many of the Romantic poets who continually modified the Italian sonnet structure, the sonnet should adapt to the needs of its poet—not vice versa.

The creation of a sonnet usually happens with an idea, observation, or conversation from everyday life.  These chance encounters can be used to supply metaphors about one’s feelings and commentary towards the world that surrounds them.  A poet must be open to everything he or she experiences, for the possibilities for a sonnet are endless.


There are poets in the world today that still make use of the sonnet.  Before beginning to write a poem, it is beneficial to find contemporary poets to see how this poetic form is changing.  As inspiration, this guides ends with a sonnet by Alfred Dorn, a poet with more than seventy writing awards who continues to write and publish sonnets.  Notice how Dorn’s sonnet below works well to convey his commentary on the tragedy and irony of middle age:

Fifty

Mornings he’s shackled to the telephone,

Plugging insurance policies as if

His life hung on each sale.  Flesh weighs like stone,

With one leg varicose, the other stiff.

At lunchbreak, in a tavern’s oak recess,

A blonde young waitress shimmers through his drink;

His mind’s hot fingers rip away the dress

That hides a Renoir bather, ripe and pink.

Back at the office, his whole body hums

As an olive-skinned brunette bends over a file.

He lurches, muscles fired by jungle drums,

Toward hip and shoulder sinuous as the Nile.

The ring on his third finger glares.  He groans.

A north wind thrusts a bayonet in his bones.

 
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