a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №178

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

---

WITH ALL THE uses of this world grown stale
alone upon the river bank and slope
I stand and wait in mood of idle hope
for fish leap into the air and sail
like birds of flight into my empty pail
when darkness falls and home my way I grope
as all my thankless soul can do is mope
imprisoned as she is inside a jail
her own hand wrought it but she cannot leave
even as she still pines for life outside
with nothing left to do she learned to weave
the net that now she casts out far and wide
more fishes catching than she can conceive
the Earth and Ocean she can now bestride
as Fisher-Queen, for if you would believe:
her cell was never locked but from inside

Photo by Crawford Jolly on Unsplash