Best Petrarch Poems
Behold Beatrice, Pitcairn
the paradise sunsets lie in Tahiti
sunrise, the folly of Easter
islands, sanitoriums, deluded, denuded
limbos and purgatories, the never evermore
Polynesian metaphors transmigrate my mind
O to graze with the deer, dear
the tree never falls silently
lizards scatter, birds scurry to flight
i could never buy into falling silence
let alone fate of Galileo's descending weights
church theologians preferring an atheist Aristhrottle
forgive me for being sententious dear
no pity for Cyrano
the hidden Darcy
in another failed Benedick in port
without Dante's delusions
love with no embrace
Service, woman, a slightly tainted saint
Tennyson's wound that never heals
Petrarch, Augustine, it grows insane
ah the vicissitudes, where was i
yes, leaving metaphors and literate men
your laughter starts in those ignescent eyes
ignition, brush fires of rippling ballerinas
facial muscles lost in abandonment
to some elfish music i see, never hear
lips widening, bursting rubaiyat pandemonium
i adore your infectious risibility
it is your amatory smile i love most
demure, candles gamboling in the moonlight
i am a moth lost in the flames
of your demanding timidity
it is then i see in your eyes
the dove gracing your hands
the beast who serves your lust
this is why the Norsemen
fear nothing but women
swords once ready, berserkers, Odin
now lie silent volcanoes in my heart, Freya
the seas are without headstones
and i am wondering again terricolous
all of this are the clouds overhead
it is the heavens i see in your eyes
not the red dawn i fear
we see the jungle, its' song, inevitable war
the struggle to stand in the light
possibly besotted, erratum
the seas have long not cared
with you, i learn, heal
we are undeniably humanity
we are paradise lost
the hells of yesterday
need not rule the heavens of today
your arms gravid with red sunsets
fill my deepest hopes of all morrows
its' ultimate price is gladly paid
Miramar 94 The Patient Stones
Revised 5/22 OKC
see on Youtube
Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 Is Not What It Seems
there are certain words in here common in 19th Century literature that always remind me....besotted with Jane Austen
Categories:
petrarch, fate, history, lust, metaphor,
Form:
Romanticism
Cinderella lost her slipper
while she ran away from the ball
tripped on a step, had nasty fall,
her wicked step-sister hit her
and got laughed at by the other,
but, Cinders, did not care at all
found the slipper, it hit the wall
angered feelings started to stir.
Smacked the sisters upside their heads
laughed loudly, as she laid in bed.
Copyright Cynthia Jones
June.17/2007
The Canzone, isn't supposed to have a couplet at the end. I got the idea from Thomas Wyatt. He took a sonnet and added a Petrarch couplet at the end of his writes. I don't know how many, but I thought, it was a great idea. So..... I tried one of my own. Cool. Eh? :oP
Categories:
petrarch, art, humor, imagery, inspiration,
Form:
Canzone
One
we go
Two three through
this life for all
they seek the Fifth column
they had a Sixth sense to
recompense the poor the weak impoverished Ones
Petrarch, Dickens, Marx, Harding-Davis, Riis, Mother Teresa,
In form rare to Multitudes, but not these souls,
Thanks to human kindness amidst the insanity-- Ah the Humanity!
Categories:
petrarch, art, culture, people, philosophy,
Form:
Fibonacci
"The Wanton Rapture Blazing"
I hear you in the ribbons that sing
tied to poles of gallantry where charged
with acts of misadventure love carried me
to your walls, I wrote on them then, as I do now
to trace each mark, each a scar on the other's groove penned,
a key for the turning buried deep in a forgotten heart
revenge does not exist there, it lies in state numbed
on the boundaries where ruined territories whisper, best buried
never to be found again, what judgement made you misadventure,
to seek me here, standing on the other side of inside out exposed,
with my runes tempting futures with an inner fortune split
and rendered aligned with waning moon, we call to each other like loons,
you seem to be full of the Icarus waxing lyrical, billowed you, approaching
the all seeing I, your valentine downfall, the wanton rapture blazing
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Valentines Day
“Bayonne”/ Elysian Fields
https://youtu.be/6XSekP_8Gp8
Inspired by Petrarch’s
“To Make A Graceful Act of Revenge”
https://petrarch.petersadlon.com/canzoniere.html?poem=2
Petrarch
(Francesco Petrarca, 1304 -1374)
Philospher, Poet
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petrarch
LYRICS/ “Bayonne”, Elysian Fields
https://genius.com/Elysian-fields-bayonne-lyrics
As the undertow is pulling me down
With your cross examination
I'm receding in the teeth of your plow
But I won't dig my own grave
As you're twisting every word that I say
There's a snare in the forest
Under brush where you want me to play
But I won't dig my own grave
Categories:
petrarch, dark, romance, valentines day,
Form:
Sonnet
The tender leaves of Laurel trees, reveals a name so rare,
a crown made of chartreuse shades is believed to show you care.
In the fourteenth century poet Petrarch adored his beloved’s mystery,
she was a queen with unknown identity and shared the same name as me.
My name is mine and only me can express the truth of grace,
at the time of my birth my mom could attest God made my tender face.
My name may not be well-known these days but I still love its beauty,
I show no fame nor hold a throne, but it’ll always be special to me.
I’ve read and learned what my name means and it seems I can be brilliant,
it’s been said that those who share the same can be quite resilient.
My mother named me knowing I’d be gifted in ways others may not be,
but no other woman with my name could be full of more possibilities.
Couplet with internal rhyme
January 8, 2017
Categories:
petrarch, birth, blessing, mystery,
Form:
Couplet
The meandering Universe or tightly packed with no edges at all
The Universe huge and pulsing enough to give seed to the life forms is packed rock into a ball
The Universe did it know all along about Love?
Hey what is life anyway? Some say they know from messages above, within— without
Some say they know by analysis, some philosophers, mystics, priests, all claim they have the key to the riddle-- What do they know?
I have voyaged with Plato, and Aristotle feeling the firm ground beneath me slipping away,
I mourned the Passion, I have kneeled for Allah, Vishnu, Shiva, Yahweh, RA, Amun-Ra, Odin, and I have imbibed the mystic, elevating into a fugue
Hawkins, Sagan, Einstein have wisely spoken, I speak their words, “Where did God hide those confounded data?”
I have visited the land where law of religions becomes the external garb of man, atoms flowing rapidly energetically all from cloth to flesh and back again--
In those black holes I have held hands with Sagan, De Grasse
In search of other worldly terrestrial beings, and have floated into eternity embracing Hawkings into beauteous things— with water at the center of it all…
Plunged into darkness, and never found those dice,
What can I say, I am only man.
We have tried for millenniums to answer the puzzling riddles, what is the ‘mystery of inequity’, perchance it is of no substance at all, or is split asunder in the vital soul of man himself some slippery essence waiting to ooze out into the atmosphere,
The riddles are great, and the universe holds them somewhere in the abyss, of man blackest recesses perchance— Maybe there is no mystery at all… “Philosophy is a smile on a dog”
Some say they know by analysis, some Philosophers, mystics, Scientists, all claim they have the key to the riddle…What do they know?
In the desperate search of God we have despised our ways, Men have become haters of Love. I saw the birth of the humanist once upon a page-- Petrarch my father
He held the keys jangling with a smirk and rage…
Man disappoints man…
Categories:
petrarch, humanity, universe,
Form:
Free verse
O’ Word, “My Dolly”
You are not fatherless for my Bibliogenesis
I feel you in my veins Parthesiogennesis
With the traffic-jammed, like an egg unfertilized
In my polluted blood, my desire streepteased.
The world is made up of things that don’t speak
But they have a language and a reason to seek.
Erotic wet desire to form embryo Erotogenically
Love you in dear one’s mouth Aesthesiogenically
Mould you in good shape with your mouth’s vault
So the world can hear you in the heaven’s court.
O” Word,” My Dolly”
====================================
* In March 1996, the news of the birth of a fatherless sheep affectionately
named "Dolly" shocked the world. The possibility that human beings could be cloned too -
long the subject of jokes and science fiction - began to awaken an inner fear.
We are bombarded by meaning, every day, at all hours of our lives. We spend our time
interpreting the signs that the world hurls at us. Let’s think instead of the world of Dante,
but also that of Petrarch, Ariosto, and Leopardi: everything in their texts indicates that
they were born of a solid, monolithic, and healthy subjectivity, which is sure of itself
despite appearances
Categories:
petrarch, desire,
Form:
Rhyme
Grandpa raised me to listen to the whisper of grace, tracing out miracles on the edge of my faith… by poet
~~~
Grandpa had hair like salt and pepper
His hands were old and wrinkled from time
As was his face – creased, not in his prime
Once upon a time, he’d been a high stepper
Grandpa knew about the old days and ways
And he looked almost ancient to my young mind
The thing that always struck me was he was kind
Gave from his heart, everything, even his praise
Grandpa loved me like no other possibly could
He welcomed me to his house with an open heart
He made me feel as if I was nothing but good
Thought I was so fully alive my joy would start
Giving back to the world - a love that withstood
The test of time and assured hope I would impart
~~~
The Petrarchan sonnet, perfected by the Italian poet Petrarch, divides the 14 lines into two sections: an eight-line stanza (octave) rhyming ABBAABBA, and a six-line stanza (sestet) rhyming CDCDCD or CDECDE.
Categories:
petrarch, child, childhood, grandchild, grandfather,
Form:
Sonnet
The muse inspires her inmost poet:
when moved by divine breath she composes
sonnets of three quatrains and one couplet
with such grace that we send her red roses.
Iambic lines by fourteen, five beats per line
she strings together like beads on a cord
forming verses so resoundingly fine
that we adore her with every kind word.
Her sonnets' warm and passionate intent
are lovelier and much more temperate
than untrue kisses when begrudgingly sent
(alas, Petrarch himself was ne'er so great!).
In time, her sonneteer skills down the years
will kindle Shakespeare's envious, green tears.
Categories:
petrarch, inspiration, muse, poems, poetry,
Form:
Sonnet
Laura Contest
Latin for “Laurel” was a tall, strong tree,
Queens crowned with such honor and victory,
Poet Petrarch in love with the beauty,
Beloved Laura, fourteenth century.
So many years, nothing but love for her,
Laura was his soulmate, truth to be heard,
For he wrote her sonnets on notepaper,
Longing to prove he was her heart keeper.
When someone asks what Laura really means,
Strong roots supporting my great Laurel tree,
Blossoming, blooming all colors of green,
Swaying in the breeze so sturdy and free.
Even though my middle name is Marie,
Queens crowned with my branches in victory.
Written By: Laura Urbaniak
Date: November 20, 2015
Categories:
petrarch, poets, tree,
Form:
Sonnet
Sonneteer Petrarch, with
Shakespeare, set the standards:
so little space - fourteen
short lines, each with just ten
syllables. Yet greats like
St. Vincent Millay weave
scripts pregnant with meaning.
[pleiades]
Written 21 Oct 2020
Categories:
petrarch, poetry, poets,
Form:
Pleiades
Weird finger on my wall,
Dripping ink of silly words,
Your lines embraced obscurity,
Reading no originality
Write your lines like legends,
Not far beyond legends,
Of which Shakespeare put on the crown of immortality,
Petrarch, the gown to rule till eternity,
In the mortal realm of humanity.
Cease tight this opportunity
Of expose and print call
If not, your song book will answer the lovely cockroach call,
Your voice will fade Because of guildline blockade,
And forever unknown you shall be....
Categories:
petrarch, allegory, satire,
Form:
Free verse
The death of once-great swans I oft' lament;
and ask in vain, “Where have all the bards gone?”
No more are written lines as eloquent
as in the days of Poesy's ancient dawn,
when Homer sung the epic war for Troy,
and the odyssey of a Greek-hero king;
or, when the poet Petrarch sung for joy
of Laura, his love; and Dante, whose dayspring
of the heart was Beatrice. The Romantics
of bygone days, alas, are forgotten!
The lyric odes of Keats, the Byronics
of George Gordon, are now misbegotten
by great reams of abysmal, free-verse styles
today ill-writ by mental juveniles.
Categories:
petrarch, journey, joy, literature, love,
Form:
Sonnet
I'm the sonneteer of another era,
Struggling for fame and dreaming of glories...
Living free in prosperous America,
Where there's hunger for interesting stories.
Invite me to share yours as thrills resume;
I will give my opinion anytime,
But perfect syllables count and strict rhyme scheme
Are required for rhythm to happily chime.
Petrarch and Shakespeare were the greatest
Poets who created remarkable sonnets;
Read their works with unquenchable zest:
You'll discover they wrote them in the hundreds!
Study the unique forms of each sonnet;
Model yours on them with true interest!
Categories:
petrarch, history, inspirational, on writing
Form:
Sonnet
Dear Reader,
Greetings! I hope you are having a wonderful day, or evening if you are just reading this.
No, really, from the depths of my soul, my spirit waves a double-handed "Hi!" to yours.
Come, bring your philosophical coffee cup or tea cup or cup of whatever your favorite
beverage is and sit beside me, across the e-ther. May I ask why you are reading this? You
want to read poetry, I understand, and this is not really poetry. Or is it? Could this
count as free verse? I would not call it a sonnet or a haiku, except in the loosest
possible definition, in the way that drawing outside of the lines can be a drawing and a
de Kooning painting consisting of a chunky orange paintstroke can be considered to depict
a woman. But what makes poetry poetry, or art art for that matter? The medium? The
observer? The intent? Surely Warhol's footage of people sleeping would never be considered
art except for the presence of the camera and the eventual distribution. A man sleeping
miles from a camera or canvas would not likely be considered art, so does the camera
serially produce art? Most people would not consider home movies to be art. So is art
merely a stamp that we all carry around in our frontal lobes? Is life a form of art
regardless of what we call it? In this day and age, in which all rules seem to be broken,
rewritten, broken again, stretched like an old t-shirt, ripped, worn as a new fashion, and
then broken again, have we evolved to the point where we see rules as artificial labels,
something outside our own world that no more exist than the square root of negative one?
Is this letter a poem in spite of itself? What do you think? We may never know for sure,
and if this entry gets deleted from the site, I suppose the answer is a thunderclap "No."
In fact, after thinking it through, I am fairly confident that this is actually not a
poem. These labels are an earnest attempt to creates links in the world, without which
this entire treatise would make no sense. What would Petrarch have thought? What would
Warhol have thought? Or Andy Kaufman? Either way, I guess this is probably not a poem. But
thank you for having read these thoughts of mine, swirling like pagan revelers around my
head. Thank you for reading my non-poem which may actually be a poem but isn't. I bid you
a wondrous and blessed day. Or night.
Yours,
-Michael
Categories:
petrarch, art, philosophy, people, may,
Form:
Free verse