a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets (33)

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 an actual Petrarchan sonnet so it will not be preceded by my usual exculpatory disclaimer about having departed from the paradigmatic form.

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FOR US to wait with patience at the door
at the end of this great capacious hall 
is perhaps most difficult of all,
the task for which each thing that came before 
and everything the future has in store
is but preparation; for which the Fall
is the felix culpa, oh happy gall!
happy too this solitude all the more
to taste and drink, for estrangement is the womb
of love, as sure as day is born of night
as sure as Lazarus came from the tomb
as sure as yonder Morning Star is bright
as sure as flowers out of death with bloom
and so before this promise of delight
before the face of our unfolding plight 
to stand guard over her solitude is right

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