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Twenty-one approximately Petrarchan sonnets and three brief lyrics



Published June 2007
A5, 20pp, stapled, card cover
ISBN 978-1-905465-08-8


The Mock

Mock me now you later times:
This strain’s high-flung
From one so young,
Ill suits the lumpish echo of his rhymes.

But on this count mock the most:
Love unbidden
And kept hidden
Was the form these archaic lines enclosed.

It’s said the holy city,
The angel host,
God, Christ and Ghost
Find room in that room where we lodge our pity.

The rich and vaulting splendour
Of the domed brain
Reflects in vain:
In the heart’s forge truth is hammered tender.

Mock how heart the mind enjoins
In its great need,
Though she’ll not read,
To build her place there, her columns and quoins.

And when you’ve soundly derided
Unlet passion
In the old fashion,
Feel your heart too, set in your breast lopsided.

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