a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets (82)
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.
YOU STRATEGIZE to maximize your gain
but winnings will be losses till you’ve learned
that love is neither bought nor sold nor earned
but falleth freely like a gentle rain
from Heaven, never hurried, doesn’t strain
seeks not for vengeance upon being spurned
rises up from ashes upon being burned
so to your lips now press the cup of pain
then watch time unfurl like an Asian fan
a peacock’s tail, the season in its bloom
a scroll unrolling with the cosmic plan
your sorrow is a thread upon Time’s loom
where angels weave the destiny of man:
the dawn will break upon an empty tomb
Thank you dear son .