a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan “sonnets”: №185
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.
UPON MY HAND a ring of bronze I wear in fires forged inside a furnace hot that liquid tin and copper red begot when wed they were, the alloy pour with care into a mould and cast as brazen ware as well a silver ring I also sought and ere great time had passed I also got that very thing; I wish for more did dare for every object is a transformation and fortune grants her favor to the bold for lo! how everything is in migration to-wards an end that prophets long foretold and ere a pilgrim gains his destination then everything I own I will have sold transformed in fire and peregrination upon my finger is a ring of gold
