a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №112
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 15 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 5 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
A THOUSAND things that I would like to say
of ancient secrets, unknown to men but true
near at hand, and distant, veiled in blue
of hills and bright horizons far away
arcana metaphors alone convey
but to speak aloud of them I’ll still eschew:
it’s better they were spoken out by you
and they shall indeed be said one distant day
when life has finally dashed your heart on stone
its blood poured out in fertile streams of care
you’ll stand there naked and bereft, alone
held aloft alone on legs of prayer
you’ll feel your life belongs to you on loan
these secrets only then shall you declare
and the Creator’s thoughts will be your own
I’ve heard that Brahms composed a fugue when he woke up each morning, stretching his compositional muscles, crafting it with care, then crumpled the paper and tossed it in the fireplace. How we wish that more of Brahms’s output survived for us to enjoy today!
Max, I’m grateful for your discipline, composing a sonnet a day. You’ve inspired me to write more sonnets in recent months. Often I see in this certain indefinite number more than one flash of imagery, of word art, of mystical insight, and I wish that you would take the time to smooth the awkward places.
I don’t know that this is an improvement, but it’s me infusing my personal style into your work. Please take this as a tribute, not a “correction”.
A THOUSAND things that I would like to say —
I’d tell you ancient secrets, if I knew
them; but alas, my memory holds but few.
Their whispers carry truth from far away.
Arcane, faint metaphors can but convey
an echo of their power, a cryptic clue
that I cannot decode. But maybe you
will bear your candle to this dark one day.
Your ship will wreck, your heart will dash on stone,
your pride will persevere, so that alone
you spill your blood in fertile streams of care,
and every claim to vanity forswear.
Then our Creator’s thoughts will be your own
for you, and for all humankind to share.