a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №152
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 18 lines and an unorthodox rhyme-scheme is like a quartet with 6 members, though reproof is always welcome from anyone who feels so moved.
BEFORE the door of sleep the daybreak stands arrayed in rosy vestments of the morn and glowing like the day that he was born begins to rap and knock with eager hands desiring me to rise and loose the bands of night while spirits blow upon their horns their golden trumpets bray out to forewarn me that the rising Sun is now at hand whose fingers graze tops of ancient trees I charge you by the angels from above that turn the world and send the summer breeze I charge you that you should not awake my love do not awake my love until she please so fashion for the Sun a cloudy glove that now my love can sleep and take her ease and when she please she’ll wake and like a dove she’ll rise and take to wing upon the breeze for souls can fly with pinions made of love
