a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets” (72)
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 17 lines is like a quartet with 5 members, though criticism and rebuke is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
IT COULD have been a thousand years or more
since leaves first blithely pressed into the air
and sacred winds caressed them like a prayer
since swelling tides of light first broached the shore
of vernal orchards, buds like pools to pour
new floods of nectar till they come to bear
the seasons fruits, near bursting, plump, and fair
and all the treasure that the Summer had in store
but nothing in this life is what it seems
for now these scenes I find I scarce recall
as water through my hands, they flee like dreams,
as veils of frost descend and like a pall
they shroud these scenes while silver beams
of moonlight glint upon this frozen thrall
what secret faith or pious thought redeems
such tender grapes, their bitterness forestall
to press, and pour like wine into a Graal?
