I read a poem

I read a poem the other day,
A verse by Donne
Concerning the 'unruly Sunne'.

It made me wonder about the nature of verse and word play
And meter and rhyme and such,
And whether such rules matter that much.

Donne compares with Shakespeare, they say
But my versifying is so many limericks, and worse
Compared to the density of meaning in their exquisite verse.

Me compare a summer's day?
You must be kidding: I cannot compare
A lump of wood much less a maiden fair.

I like Dylan (Bob); it is true to say
He sings like speech and it happens to rhyme.
I too can rhyme and write in metrical time

And passably make my meaning play,
Achieving closure by the end of the line
But for this ability no one will pine.

All these things my words can say
But not all at the same time.
Perhaps I need a change of clime

And like Donne, tread upon English clay
Then I might pass as a minor poet
Whereas here, who would know it?

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  ¶ 9:18 am