a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets” (53)

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 21 lines is like a quartet with 7 members, though criticism and rebuke is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.

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WHEN only winds at empty tables dwell
in halls of once wassailing Northern lands
no more takes the blacksmith in his hands
the blunted hammer, whose ringing knell
is heard no more, and no more to compel
the iron where its skillful blows should land
and in the South, forgotten where they stand
the Cedars of Lebanon, whose roots touch Hell
whose outspread arms reach into Heaven’s well
and draw down water at the Lord’s command
when merchants no more traverse the land
salt has lost its savour, perfume its smell…
we have been told that one day Judah’s lion
shall come, good shepherd to his flock of sheep,
our eyes shall behold the waited scion
bounding over the hilltops, green and steep
to come and loose the band of Orion
and bind the Leviathan in the deep
so I charge thee, ye Daughters of Zion—
for he will come to these fields of promise reap—
that in your hearts ye shall this promise keep