a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets” (75)

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 18 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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DOES not life some perfect end foretoken?
though this world by cords of time is bound 
yet still in hidden signets it abounds 
swift exchanges that cannot be spoken
correspondences that can’t be broken
conveyances of speech without a sound
though cities fail and crumble to the ground
as one from exalted dreams awoken
as one from dreams of spirits, nimble, pert
wrenched out may be, and rudely made to wake
to hardships bear, adversity, and hurt
as wild geese the frozen lands forsake
so wingéd hope will flee and in the dirt
will cast the soul, and make the heart to break—
or rather sow her, for she is not inert
the wrecking of her husk is for her sake
a seed in being sown, made to convert
so shall the soul in a higher life partake 

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