a certain indefinite number of Petrarchan sonnets: №109
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.
AROUND my thoughts I keep a golden ring
to gather them in sheaves just where I stand
upon the threshing floor where they’ll be fanned
and winnowed from the chaff to which they cling
after these bundles ‘gainst the wind I fling
about my feelings there’s a silver band
that holds their secret till I understand
and from their kernels shoots of action spring
as youthful deeds by alloyed metal crowned
that’s standing guard upon them from above
their blades burst forth from out the frozen ground
and sunlight falls upon them like a dove
and thus they wax in stature, hale and sound
one day to ripen into fruits of love
