a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets: №181
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.
THE SUN has from these mottled regions fled the twilight tells you you will enter soon the court in which deception is a boon in all the histories that you have read in them you find the people is misled the one who pays the piper calls the tune the one who wields the sickle of the Moon like Damoclean sword above your head the blade that in the sky begins to climb and signal that your trial shall soon begin but if you’ll battle for sufficient time against the foe that fills your heart with sin although he’ll smear your face with blood and grime he’ll in the end have taught you how to win
Ok now lets have a poem that rejoices in life and opportunity and the glorious future we are going to have.😁