Ordinarily I don’t publish so much poetry at Theoria-press, and instead try to provide mostly essays with an odd poem or sonnet occasionally interspersed among them. But the Muse’s visits have outstripped my ability to keep pace with prose pieces so readers who prefer essays should peruse the archives of this site, which are replete with them. Also, I should acknowledge that the formal aspect of this “Petrarchan sonnet” is liberally conceived so it’s unnecessary to alert me that at “Petrarchan sonnet” with 16 lines is like a quartet with 5 members, though criticism and rebuke is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
THE Summer Sun has lost its pride of place
and day by day declines against the Sky
from heights and hilltops can be heard the cry
and hollow bellow echo through this place
of frost-giants, eager they descend apace
with arsenals of winds and storms they ply
deploying them my fortitude to try
alas I could not stop the flame to die
the flame I sought to tend through thick and thin
and cradled with my body ‘gainst rain
that beat upon my back and tore my skin
attempting to efface my will with pain
yet serving but to steel it from within
lend me then your flinty heart, between us twain
we we’ll strike a spark that can ignite again
this kindling and restore the vestal flame
Max, this one is especially breathtaking.