a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №132
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.
FROM THE hilltop village we descend in throngs
into the lowland fields we make our way
to drive our plough through substance of the day
make straight the furrows and make right the wrongs
we sow our tears and reap with joyful songs
and so transforming every chore to play
and when the season paints its grey on grey
we place each artful stroke where it belongs
the colours from this palette’s paints are drawn
the palette Nature mixed and placed in hand
that’s dull at night a vibrant in the dawn
when braids of fire wind across the land
like reins by which the chariot is drawn
that bears the god who holds the reins in hand
