Oh boy. This took hours and several heavy sighs and a few tears. Sonnets are so strict. I tried my best not to sound forced. I’m not sure how well I succeeded, but I wanted to be true to form.

I have a project on the back burner reimagining the tasks of Hercules as crimes he committed. Since this project involves several specific poetic forms, and the cattle of Geryon task has been eluding me (for two years!), I decided this was my impetus to work on it. Hercules killed three “people” on the island before he was able to capture the cattle, so I am writing epitaphs for each of them. Now I know they will be in the form of sonnets. Today, Geryon’s guard dog and brother of Cerberus, Orthus (alternatively spelled Orthrus/Orthos/Orthros).

Poem prompt: “Our daily resource is the online collection of Spain’s Reina Sofia Museum, which houses an incredible collection of modern and contemporary art. You can find Picassos aplenty here, of course, but also things like this vertiginous sculpture that makes me think of a rollercoaster, this mysterious Magritte, and this collaboration between Andy Warhol and Jean-Michel Basquiat.

And now for our daily (optional) prompt. The word ‘sonnet’ comes directly from the Italian sonetto, or ‘little song.’ A traditional sonnet has a strict meter and rhyme scheme. It’s a strange form to have wormed its way into English, which is relatively unmetrical and rhyme-poor compared to Romance languages like Italian.

But thanks to William Shakespeare, Edmund Spenser, and others, the sonnet in English bloomed. It also became a sort of rite of passage for poets, with the Victorians especially loving very strict sonnets.

…Try your hand at a sonnet – or at least something ‘sonnet-shaped.’ Think about the concept of the sonnet as a song, and let the format of a song inform your attempt. Be as strict or not strict as you want.”

Epitaph for Orthus, Who Was a Good Boy (a sonnet)

Entombed here lies a loyal friend Asleep. 
In life, he trailed a faith-filled herd until 
A godly man then bludgeoned blackened sheep 
To find his selfish pride in cutthroat thrill. 

Across the green terrain those cows once grazed, 
Poor pup now slinks as ash, ashamed in death. 
The hero mauled with thoughtless club and dazed 
Both heads, and weaving aim, and earnest breath. 

The earth convulsed when Hades’ guard did learn 
His lesser brother bowed to Charon’s punt 
And begged that ferryman prevent the burn 
Of torment for his native monstrous grunt. 

Three heads now spill twelve tears of flame in hate 
and wait with Shades for He to reach their gate.