D.W. Rodgers Poet Italian Sonnet

Calliope Lost

Under her magic, honeyed words poured forth
filling his fervent verse with rhyme and wit
for suitors to woo and doxies commit
to carnal indulgence and thus henceforth
as topmost poetaster of the north
his purse was filled with gold and silver bit.
But at autumn's end, away he would split
to rest in warm climes until May the fourth.

Then an El Nino year, when she stayed south
his verse thickened, treacle in climate's scold
his sharp pen, now dull, only rent the page
full of awkward phrases, crude and uncouth
his once bright parlance now tattered and old
as her light shifted to another stage.

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