a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets” (42½)
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 16 lines is like a quartet with 5 members, though criticism and rebuke is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
BEHIND the green veneer, a glint of gold:
I feel the ebb of Summer’s waning tide
break upon the season’s shoal of August’s Ides
and Summer’s dreams release me from their hold
I feel the bud self within unfold
when Nature’s life begins to wane and hide
I feel new breath into my soul now glide
and spring to life that’s neither young nor old
one of which by prophets was foretold
one on which the Seraphim will ride
that at the World’s End, shall still reside
though Heaven itself should finally fold
up like a scroll leaving not one star behind
one whose activity just is its being
untrammeled from the ligatures that bind
the soul to form, and from those fetters freeing
a new substance of my self I find:
a seer who is itself the seeing
You're making this look easy, Max. And, I know, IT IS NOT. Appreciate you and your work.