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. This is more-or-less an actual Petrarchan sonnet so it will not be preceded by my usual exculpatory disclaimer about having departed from the paradigmatic form.
MEN TRAMPLE underfoot the blades of corn
to circumambulate the golden calf
parading throngs of fools will doubtless laugh
to see me stoop to kiss your lips of scorn
incline my head, receive a crown of thorn,
no heed they’ll pay as up I raise my staff
and pound the sand to part the Sea in half
deliv’ring them from fate to which they’re born
indeed they’ll mock me, gall to drink they’ll give
my legs they’ll bind and nail my hands and toes
and taunt me till I finally cease to live
but here’s the open secret no one knows:
it is a resurrection to forgive
and lo! how ‘mong the thorns has bloomed a rose
It's lovely to see the spirit of transcendental poetry resurrected in classical rhyme and meter.
Thank you Max. Your writngs are always perfect timing for this gentle mind of mine. Heart Intenions, Terryanne