The sonnet redoublé is one of the hardest and most tiring things one can do so far as poetry is concerned. Writing one sonnet is hard. Writing fifteen, all of which must be linked by their first and last lines, culminating in a sonnet composed of lines from all fourteen previous sonnets- well, that's backbreaking work. I honestly don't remember why I thought it was a good idea. What I produced wasn't good poetry, exactly, but at 210 lines of poetry, I honestly gave up minding.

The first fourteen sonnets in a sonnet redoublé form a corona of sonnets, where the last line of each sonnet is the same as the first line of the next (and the last line of the last sonnet is the same as the first line of the first, to complete the loop). A sonnet redoublé consists of fifteen sonnets, the first fourteen forming a normal corona, and the last being formed from the fourteen linking lines, in order. A good tactic is to write the fifteenth and final sonnet first, so you don't get too tied up in knots.

I chose to use the Shakespearean sonnet form, as it's the one I'm most comfortable with using.

I won't inflict the entirety of my attempt upon you- not only would be a bit too much, it's also incredibly flawed in places. What follows is the fifteenth sonnet, each line of which is drawn from the previous fourteen sonnets. This last sonnet is really all about taking inspiration from the world, using your own experiences to churn out poetry. The rest of the sonnets employ a lot of rather odd sexual imagery which is absent from this last sonnet- which, yes, is another reason I'm not posting the whole thing. Even for me, it gets a bit explicit in places (not how you'd think- it's all neatly disguised as high-and-mighty poetry, I assure you!).

I urge people to attempt this. The sense of achievement you get upon finishing the last line is near euphoric.

15. ink on linden trees

the earth is paused for hours, still turning on
the half-formed pulse of fingers waving through
clear water. droplets of the stuff are drawn
with lengths of rough and wiry rope, which chew

small cuts into my hands, malformed, moon-shaped.
the planet’s swell is girdled by the blood,
a leather ribbon soundly roundly draped
around a pregnant woman’s womb in bud.

in babbling groups they eat my words and drink
the deluge from my veins. my fingers jolt
and grant the world a gleaming bead of ink,
laid out for them to graze upon, then bolt.

they have devoured so much, the world is shrunk;
but I have bled as much as I have drunk.

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