a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №157

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 15 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 5 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.

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DISCARDED armour hangs upon the wall
a two-edged broadsword half consumed by rust
a shield and baldric hid by shroud of dust 
upon them draping like a deathly pall
the arms and armour bound in age-long thrall
and there beside them stands a silent bust
of some great hero or some god, I trust,
who from memory I allowed to fall
but as I gaze upon the chiseled stone
a tide of feeling rises like a swell
and where I stand upon that floor alone
an intimation strikes me like a bell
my mortal frame set ringing to the bone
for though forgotten and I cannot tell 
I know these long-lost sagas are my own

Photo by Rolf Schmidbauer on Unsplash