a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets” (34)

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 20 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 7 members, though criticism and rebuke is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.

---

I HEAR the sound of seven trumpets bray
resound beneath brooding, portentous skies
and every creeping thing that creepeth hies
and scurries, seeks to hide itself away
before the angel’s face on Judgement Day
with hair like thunder and a voice that cries
like many waters, the seas begin to rise
and in one hand the angel holds a weigh
to measure in a balance just and fair
and in the other hand holds vials seven
that he pours out without admixture there
then like a dove ascendeth into Heaven
as all the martyrs raise their voice in prayer
their prayers a-working in the Earth like leaven
and the Earth itself begins to rise into the air
like a bride that climbeth up a spiral stair
to meet the bridegroom at the tower’s height
the final truth, when spoken may sound odd
for blessedness and wrath are coupled tight:
two responses to a single love of God

Photo by Massimiliano Morosinotto on Unsplash