a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №143

for Winter Solstice

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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IN PITCH of night, upon darkest hour
the hierophant descends with torch in hand
the log of Yule to kindle with the brand
of yesteryear, an extract of its power
the blooming of a backward-turning flower
enveloped in the folds of night we stand
in semi-circle on the frozen land
as above us he appears to tower
beclad in vestal livery of night 
my heart is harrowed, gripped with fear and wonder
as he approaches, bearing flame alight
that spits and cracks like peals of thunder
as he enacts the sacred Winter rite
the newborn year from old to sunder
the new Sun rises as the old goes under

Photo by Thom Schneider on Unsplash