When you can do anything, when every avenue beckons, the open-ended opportunity becomes overwhelming
A sonnet is a writing form with very specific parameters. It must be no more and no less than fourteen lines, written in iambic pentameter — an “iambus” means every second syllable is emphasized, and “pentameter” means precisely ten syllables on each line. There’s a rhyme scheme of ABAB for the first three quatrains (we plebes would call them “stanzas”), then a couplet for the last two.
It was a tough assignment, even for those of us with rich experience composing Color War theme songs. There were so many limitations: The mandatory ten syllables on each line. The unbending, inflexible rhyme scheme. And that iambus. I don’t know if any shining masterpieces resulted from the assignment.
But it was a good exercise for life.
Structure, strictures, and limitations are part of our existence here on earth. As frum Jews, we know they’re vital. Beyond that, they’re part of any productive, courteous citizen’s functioning; essential in the workplace; imperative when building a home, designing a kitchen, or ordering furniture.
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