a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №135
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 18 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 6 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
YOUR WORDS are seeking to take form in me
striving to inscribe the substance of my mind
seeking to impress my soul with seal divine
to stamp out empty phraseology
to trample down the tired simile
to topple down the walls where she’s confined
and leave clichés and servitude behind
to loose the cords of night and set her free
and so your words within in my fertile soul
in darkness germinate without a sound
their growth I foster, guide, but can’t control
as seeds when sown upon receptive ground
that spring up when the time is ripe and full
and burst forth from my soul when she is round
as more she bears, so more she is made whole
and every word from you she can compound
proliferated on an endless scroll
in you the germ of poetry I have found
