a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets” (58)

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 16 lines is like a quartet with 5 members, though criticism and rebuke is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.

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ALONE into the desert I was led
believing I would never die of thirst,
that in all, my lot had been not the worst;
but finding only sand to make my bed
and but save stones, nowhere to lay my head,
in anguished soul my husk of selfhood burst;
and so I tore my hair, my fate I cursed
for having heeded what the angel said,
and then my eyes began to weep and cry,
sprinkling the desert sand with tears,
then slow but sure, and seeming to imply
some power that, though silent, ever hears,
through tearful eyes did I at once descry
a garden, as through grown for many years
and days, and through my ears, then hear did I
the music of the slowly turning spheres
and my heart beats like a tabor in reply

Photo by Giorgio Parravicini on Unsplash