a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets (52)
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.
BEHOLD the light of goldening hour
descend upon the rich and ripened land
a scythe of fire that by the angel’s hand
is wielded, whose face is stern and dour,
who has come the amber fields to scour,
the harvest gather and into bundles band,
when he breathes, the sheaves of wheat are fanned
and winnowed by that austere power
while I stand alone and naked, in a daze
and watch the chaff be burned for evermore
I must change my life and change my ways
for I now stand upon the threshing-floor
my trembling soul now to the angel prays
that he may purge me to my very core
This outstanding sonnet ranks as a contemporary companion piece to John Keats's, Ode to Autumn, in my personal anthology! Its perfection of form and expression is commensurate with the timely, heart stirring and urgent spiritual revelation that inspired it.
Gratefully yours,
Treasa O'Driscoll, author, Celtic Woman, a memoir of life's poetic journey
Yes, standing on the threshing-floor is part of our great task...