"petrarch" poems
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
2.9k
Montgomery! true, the common lot
Of mortals lies in Lethe’s wave;
Yet some shall never be forgot,
Some shall exist beyond the grave.
“Unknown the region of his birth,”
The hero rolls the tide of war;
Yet not unknown his martial worth,
Which glares a meteor from afar.
His joy or grief, his weal or woe,
Perchance may ’scape the page of fame;
Yet nations, now unborn, will know
The record of his deathless name.
The Patriot’s and the Poet’s frame
Must share the common tomb of all:
Their glory will not sleep the same;
‘That’ will arise, though Empires fall.
The lustre of a Beauty’s eye
Assumes the ghastly stare of death;
The fair, the brave, the good must die,
And sink the yawning grave beneath.
Once more, the speaking eye revives,
Still beaming through the lover’s strain;
For Petrarch’s Laura still survives:
She died, but ne’er will die again.
The rolling seasons pass away,
And Time, untiring, waves his wing;
Whilst honour’s laurels ne’er decay,
But bloom in fresh, unfading spring.
All, all must sleep in grim repose,
Collected in the silent tomb;
The old, the young, with friends and foes,
Fest’ring alike in shrouds, consume.
The mouldering marble lasts its day,
Yet falls at length an useless fane;
To Ruin’s ruthless fangs a prey,
The wrecks of pillar’d Pride remain.
What, though the sculpture be destroy’d,
From dark Oblivion meant to guard;
A bright renown shall be enjoy’d,
By those, whose virtues claim reward.
Then do not say the common lot
Of all lies deep in Lethe’s wave;
Some few who ne’er will be forgot
Shall burst the ******* of the grave.
2.9k
Keen, fitful gusts are whisp'ring here and there
Among the bushes half leafless, and dry;
The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cool bleak air,
Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home's pleasant lair:
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
That in a little cottage I have found;
Of fair-hair'd Milton's eloquent distress,
And all his love for gentle Lycid drown'd;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown'd.
2.4k
Come to think of it, Garrison Keillor reads poetry like he'd feign be Bukowski or something.
(sonnets #MMMMMCCCXXXII and MMMMMCCCXXXIII)
I
Bukowski. If I'd known--and there must trail
Off seeking an excuse to bother hence
With aught. Nor should I have writ these his sense
Of our supposed age could acknowledge bail
For, since his voice kills any spirit's frail
Hope of existance, while he coughs from thence
To fiercely say the madness dictates whence
As chopped, clipped phrases whereby he'd prevail.
And Shelley, who saw further than now's poor
Horizon, said art veils her glass whilst through
The centries curs as ole Bukowski tour--
To vanish, sans a note. Yet here all who
Aspire think vile is tops, our work as twere
In vain and refuse. Cuz such never knew.
II
Lo, ****** Surrey, Wyatt, and aught hence
Who bowed themselves to Petrarch's mincing scale,
Yes, "polished our erst homely," ruder tale
Of lines and poetry, whose manners thence
Became refined thus as we yielded, whence
Far more rebelled than dared submit, t'assail
What set us 'part from beasts as if in frail
Excuse to cavil suited their intents.
He said the "mountaintop" was mine as twere
T'enjoy, but if I wanted friends maunt do,
As they all wallowed in the mud, each boor
Disgusted save by filthy scents. Sans clue
Of our high calling meant to raise th'obscure
Light for our fellow man, ye can't, who knew.
24Dec15c,d
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 9:18 PM UTC
Poetry, the reason we are all here.
Writing words that we hope someone reads and hears
Hears in the sounds of the words, them coming alive
Vocally there is a potency to written words
Say them out loud, hear them, feel them form in your mouth
Soulfully continue this aged tradition of story telling
Poetry, is known globally, it transcends diplomacy,
it reaches souls, hearts and minds.
Like a minority,poetry is seen as weak and bleak,
but then life is not a bed of roses, there are thorns.
Reproachfully it is scorned, 'poet? Try writing a novel'
Wrongfully seen as the poor man to a novelist, poetry
at its best conveys, more in a few verses than a thousand
pages of a novel. Lonesome is the poet, that sees truth.
There is merit in poetry, the continuation of odes told by
the fireside, Viking, Persian, Celt, all historic bardic civilisations.
Purity in poetry leads down a path least travelled these days
but tales of yore still prevail, and Beowulf still roars.
Canterbury tales still elicit smiles, cries and woe.
Shakespeare, Dante, Poe, Neruda, Thomas, Petrarch all Poets with soul.
So, you tell me, and all of us poets are we the novelists poor relation?
Or, just reclaiming our station in life as the purest storytellers?
May 26, 2014
May 26, 2014 at 10:39 AM UTC
I tried to say: you make my life complete,
you put my puzzle pieces into place.
But then I tried to send it as a tweet.
It didn't fit. I thought I could delete
one part, about the joys of your embrace;
I tried to say: you make my life complete,
but still it was too long. I thought I'd cheat
ByMergingWordsAndUsingCamelCase.
But then I tried to send it as a tweet.
It failed again. I must admit defeat.
Like Fermat's margin, Twitter lacks the space
to let me say you make my life complete.
It makes the longer forms seem obsolete.
But even Petrarch's work would meet disgrace
if cut and scaled to send it as a tweet!
And somehow public posts seem indiscreet.
I think I'd rather whisper to your face
the message that you make my life complete,
and far too full to post it as a tweet.
Apr 8, 2011
Apr 8, 2011 at 5:50 PM UTC
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frown’d,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlock’d his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch’s wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens sooth’d an exile’s grief;
The Sonnet glitter’d a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crown’d
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheer’d mild Spenser, call’d from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!
1.3k
what fragments lay in stone and silent wait
for sunrise creeping stealthily through dark
to back-light marbled forms who knew Petrarch
truncated arms which strain to touch and sate
a cold and calculated yearning carved
in everlasting porous rock compressed
as otherworldly beauty barely dressed
they stand exposed and gorgeous, proud yet starved
to feast on passion's fragments etched inside
by sculptors long since sated, fed and dead
who pounded love with hammer, chisel, sweat
from abstract concept into sanctified
emotion pulsing from unbreathing stone;
stories bled from humankind alone
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 4:35 AM UTC
I do not understand Pordon when she says
your love makes her “tremble with me
in paralyzing pauses,” nor do I understand
Cummings when the texture of your fragility “compels me
with the colour of its countries.”
Too often poets confuse some high,
a drug-induced elation, with a testament
of love. But it is not some contrived intoxication
that makes me see your beauty as divine
or your voice as some thrill to be craved.
Your touch does not electrify my skin or send me
into the light-headed ecstasy of a common drunk.
But the simple warmth of your center, the smooth suppleness
of each padded fingertip does elicit euphoria in me because it is you,
my earthly lover, who possesses them, and in so possesses me.
Your kiss does not make time speed
through the highways of my mind like
an amphetamine, blurring physics into philosophy.
Rather, your mouth points out the geometric precision
of time compared to the fluidity in
the organic bow of your bottom lip.
I am not addicted to your glances like some aesthetic ******
because your gaze does not make my heart race
like the hummingbird pace of someone needing a hit
of your rainbow-prismed eye. Instead, it is the complex brown,
turned honey in the sunlight, that stills my heart
whenever you turn from me, because it is that familiar liquid tint
that I love more than any other.
And the sight of you does not commit me to profound
epiphanies on politics or sociology, because, I admit,
you are my favorite distraction, and I prefer looking at you
to some wild hallucination, since I am struck momentarily dumb
by the weighty power of your sudden presence,
left in myopic gratitude until you leave again.
So understand, dear reader, that it was not some chemical
fixation that bound Petrarch to Laura or Dante to Beatrice,
but rather the arresting truth that the million colors poured out
by the sun, the duck fluff softness of the rowdy dogs at your feet,
and the explosive, joyous giggles of the neighborhood children
will continue to exist in heart-breaking beauty tomorrow.
May 30, 2011
May 30, 2011 at 4:36 PM UTC
To my first follower
This will be a love poem,
for all poems are love poems.
Fast love is the way of poets,
and are we not poets, you and I?
So my hater of titles, my quicksilver bird,
my dreamer of stars, my monochrome tulip,
my lover of the ugly, my age-cracked china,
barely sixteen and world-weary,
invisible but trapped in your own shadow,
this is my poem to tell you
that all the words of Petrarch
and every sonnet of Shakespeare
could not describe your radiance,
that you're worth more than
all the gold that slumbers
in warmth beneath the earth,
that one day you'll lie in a meadow
with the cool breeze bringing the
smell of salt to your nose,
and wonder when the constellations
got so bright.
You'll not believe a word,
but yet here I am,
writing you a love poem.
Nov 22, 2014
Nov 22, 2014 at 9:32 PM UTC
I see him staring from a distant place
I know he wishes only to embrace
not just my hand, my heart and soul as well
but for an unknown reason, keeps his space.
I feel his precious eyes sink into me
they're powerful to such a strong degree
I get quite scared and turn my head away
and will until my heart and mind agree.
Too many accounts of a broken heart
to even consider a brand new start
I contradict my heart and feed my mind
is nothing is formed, it can't fall apart.
I must pretend I am too blind to see
my honest love for him, and his for me.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
Blessed be the day, and the month, and the year,
and the season, and the time, and the hour, and the moment,
and the beautiful country, and the place where I was joined
to the two beautiful eyes that have bound me:
and blessed be the first sweet suffering
that I felt in being conjoined with Love,
and the bow, and the shafts with which I was pierced,
and the wounds that run to the depths of my heart.
Blessed be all those verses I scattered
calling out the name of my lady,
and the sighs, and the tears, and the passion:
and blessed be all the sheets
where I acquire fame, and my thoughts,
that are only of her, that no one else has part of
-Petrarch
Dec 2, 2015
Dec 2, 2015 at 12:42 PM UTC
You are my doom, a Laura reincarnate,
and I Petrarch, bound to you by fate.
I'd pray for salvation, but whom to implore?
You? Or a deity I believe in no more?
.
You lurk, uninvited, in the corners of my mind,
the edges of consciousness, never hard to find.
Invading my thoughts – it's not very kind,
it is a death sentence, that I myself have signed;
Because I made no attempt to dispel such a thought,
visions of you, my heart blindly sought.
.
You are my drug, and recovery I shun,
I've tried rehab, but addiction has won.
You wouldn't ask Earth to give up the Sun,
or a bullet to fly without a gun.
So, trying to quit – with that I am done,
After countless failed attempts to run.
.
You are my sorrow, but these lines ease the pain,
as burns and bruises hurt less in the rain.
I turn my heartache into verse, and time slows,
as bittersweet loneliness into words flows.
I drain myself of the pain, I keep it at bay,
however, it never completely goes away.
.
In these poems, it is you I address,
but I wouldn't ever let you see this mess;
I write so this torture would hurt a little less,
as, repeatedly and fruitlessly, my love I confess.
So, these lines will never ever go to press,
as you won't hear my lips whisper: "S".
Aug 27, 2020
Aug 27, 2020 at 9:24 AM UTC