a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets (68)
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.
WHEN salt has lost its savour, wherewithal
shall then the Earth be salted? colours fail
my soul to nourish, winds to fill her sails
her eager pace arrested to a crawl
for love came and bereft my soul of all
her dreams, strict disciplines, and fairy tales
today my soul is like an empty pail
beside the well when rain begins to fall
when she was emptied out of all she’d known
then she was filled and plenished fresh anew
in herself abiding vacant and alone
then in came pouring melodies of you
and songs of you also became her own
and Heaven was the well from whence she drew
