Sonnets can be such trite things. A fancy word for 14 lines when rules for rhyme and meter and volta (a shift in thought or tone) become negotiable or even nonexistent.
How humans choose to negotiate with text is always fascinating because every single piece of text results in negotiation. We have our own agency, experiences, memory, context—all lenses through which we read a given text and make choices about what it means. Christians do this all the time, and it's part of the reason there are so many denominations—each one negotiating with the Bible to structure power and their beliefs. The Bible—always accommodating—allows men to make God in their image.
It doesn't matter the text. Religious or otherwise, reading words not our own is constant negotiation. We have to make choices about what we read. Sometimes we do this consciously. Sometimes we don't.
Part of my attraction to poetry is the active reading it often requires. The consistent request for the reader to engage. For me, that often looks like whispering the poem to myself while I read. Taking a split moment to wrestle with the words being given to me. And when a poem really hits—the grappling I do for days afterward—in strange negotiation. If I find myself whispering a line over and over, I know I really have something.
The act of writing poetry is also a negotiation. Choosing a form takes future choices off the table. And when you're trying to capture some small kernel of someone you love, to express your love without kitsch or banality, choosing a sonnet can be risky. It's already a form associated with "love", your readers are looking for it. The negotiation already has an opening salvo.
