I recently attended a Jeffersonian dinner where we all brought sonnets and read them aloud in turn. We had a lovely time with Shakespeare, Keats, and a crowd-sourced cento. I might or might not have asked the class—er, table of adults—what the two types of sonnets are. I’m incorrigible.

To wit: the sonnet is a 14-line poem. Traditionally, each line contains 10 syllables and ends with a rhyming word dictated by a pre-set rhyme scheme. (I say traditionally because many modern sonnets don’t adhere to these musical patterns.) The two types? Petrarchan and Shakespearean.

The sonnet’s rhetorical mode is argumentative. The argument might be emotional, philosophical, personal, whathaveyou. The poet might not be arguing with you the reader; she might argue with an idea, with her beloved, with God, society, self.

Typically, the first line or two will state a premise or thesis (How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.). The following lines and stanzas develop that thesis, and the final line or two forms some sort of conclusion.

At some point, the argument turns on a hinge. The turn might be a new revelation, the introduction of a counter-argument, or another change in the speaker’s outlook. In the Petrarchan sonnet, this is called a volta and occurs where the octet meets the sestet. In the Shakespearean sonnet, the turn more often occurs at the final couplet.

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Although it might appear flowery, archaic, and opaque to the untrained eye, the sonnet shares its DNA with other forms of writing with which we might be better acquainted: op-eds, science writing, legal documents, political speeches, sermons. It’s no easy task to construct an argument solid enough to withstand dissection and repeated testing. Not that a poetic argument is a scientific hypothesis, but the rhetorical conventions parallel the scientific method pretty well, no? What if, instead of testing thousands of blood samples for a medical study, you had to state your whole deal in 140 syllables? And rhyme it? If you’re the kind who’d prefer the medical study, you’ve probably stopped reading by now.

Anyway. The night of this dinner, I chose to read a sonnet from my favorite poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins. Read it here. (Best enjoyed when read aloud, PS. No one does wordmusic like Hopkins.)

As I see it, Hopkins states his thesis, as it were, line 8: Whát I dó is me: for that I came. What a kingfisher does, what a dragonfly does, a stone, a bell, a woman: being itself is justification enough for existing. It selves itself. I’m reminded of that Fitzgerald saw often used in fiction classes: Action is character.

I say more in line 9 emphasizes the dialectic quality of the poem. The first 8 lines, meditating on the transcendence of nature, are the premise upon which the final 6 vault into an argument fueled by wild faith: God sees human beings as he sees Christ the Godman. He selves us. Say what you will about that conclusion, but I commend Hopkins for swinging for the fences, argument-wise. 

My daily writing minimum is 14 lines of verse: any meter, any form, rhyme optional. When I write to the minimum and no more (which is, let’s face it, most days), I usually make a gentle attempt at a sonnet. Is it the argumentation that makes the form compelling to me? It might be that the sonnet accommodates the constant second-guessing and endless counterarguments within my thought life. That habit of mind is not a gift to me in many circumstances, but it is here.

The great poets pack so much beauty into 140 syllables, each launching a campaign of love or faith or doubt. And that campaign doesn’t weaken with variations or challenges coming from within. It gets stronger. There’s great hope in that: how such a small container can hold multitudes and also be beautiful at the same time. 

Featured Download: For a quick tutorial on how to write your own poetry, click here.

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