a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets (91)
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 my soul of her resolve had been bereft
drawn outward with an ebbing tide to sea
leaving only sand bestrewn with kelp and me
my soul then stranded and alone was left
as when a flower from its vine is cleft
sundered from its lifeline of vitality
an iron deadbolt locked, and lost its key
whether by profligacy or by theft
then the substance of a will I felt within—
the will was swift and true like fire bright
to sear away my frailties and my sin
it came to smelt her essence out as light
to shine like newly-tempered steel again
the lock remoulded now the key fits right
