a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets: №102
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.
AT THE basement of a spiral stair
there flows a fountain and a virgin spring
where mists and vapours form and take to wing
and rise as full-fledged phantoms in the air
in grotesque likeness of my hopes and cares
they curl about me and with hands they cling
like garments to my soul and comforts bring
so, tailor-like, I fit them with my prayer
I measure twice and make the cut with shears
of inner speech and inner silence too
the power that their course and placement steers
shall guide my hand till mortal life is through
and though it cost one eye to enter here
the price was named, a fair exchange and true
It's very quiet in here(your readers seem to be a quiet crowd. I'm also inclined to be quiet, well, realatively speaking)
and it often stops me from writing, as not to disturb something. so I don't know whether I should or not?
In any case. I just wanted to say that you're very talented.
Thank you