a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets (94)
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.
NOW I like Isaac, bow beneath the blade
of crescent scythe hung darkly in the sky
my head incline, prepare my soul to die
and then by miracle the hand is stayed
new variations on a theme are played
the one who placed a hood over my eyes
soon will set me loose upon the hunt to fly
today the final ransom has been paid
by many silent tongues, the secret kept
in my heart a hand, a tablet, but no pen
to make confession of the doubts that crept
withal into my trembling heart again
inscribed in sand, then by the ocean swept
and scoured clean from memory of men