a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №114
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 17 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 6 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
I GROPE my way on winding paths of thought
on paths that through this ancient forest wend
I feel my way along its captious bends
past stumbling blocks and snares in which are caught
the bones of travelers who also sought
the selfsame goal towards which my journey tends
in their day strove this prison to transcend
whose souls today have almost been forgot
and if by Heaven’s light I should arrive
unto the gates that mark that Kingdom’s bourn
upon the threshold of that great gold hive
and naked stand, all garments from me torn
present my soul unto the Lord to shrive
will he not inquire of those souls forlorn
how could I myself alone survive?
will he not say that, like the seed of corn
you must give up your life to stay alive?
