a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets: №105
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.
CADENCES of a falling melody
are billows born upon on a field of air
that reach the shore and curl about my hair
and lap my ear like plangent words of prayer
of lovers’ souls lost to a leaden sea
and yet this selfsame psalter of despair
were it transposed into a golden key
could spring the lock and finally set you free
a new-conceived motif to loose the stocks
that you may leave your perch and take to wing
I know you fear the shadow of a hawk
and all the dangers that the open air may bring
your own shadows are succeeding you to mock
sweet bird, so raise your treble voice and sing
A beautiful image to wake to this morning. Thank you.