Two Hundred Sonnets

A celebration of a sort today:
Two hundred sonnets since last August 10,
A certain weight, there, and a boon to men.
There may be women who are prone to say
Romance is dead, but sonnets find a way
To move the hardest hearts, no matter when,
No matter where, so I took up my pen
And brought you love, triumph, truth, hope, decay.

Production of this sort of poetry
Is not the sort of thing a man can jerk
Out of himself, and it's more than a quirk,
Although some people have said worse of me.
Two hundred sonnets! There's no recipe;
It took me fifty-four weeks of hard work.