a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets: №145
for Christmas
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 a legitimate Petrarchan sonnet so it will not be preceded by my usual exculpatory disclaimer about having departed from the paradigmatic form.
BEHOLD upon the Earth the mists arise
as faceless legions that emerge in throngs
confounding speech and stifling songs
and lo! a creature, poor, despised
stumbling, confused by engines of demise
stranded in a season she does not belong
abandoned by her ancient gods since long
departed thence to seek more temperate skies—
“Therefore, send me, O Father! Father send
me, that I may save this creature from her plight
traversing spheres and Aeons I’ll descend
I’ll bear Heaven’s seal of uncreated light
all ills I’ll heal, estrangements I will mend
my life lay down to set the world aright.”