An Attempt to Write a Petrarchan Sonnet
in Iambic Pentameter
Whilst Dealing with Writer’s Block
A lonely pen upon unhappy page
So free from mark, or word, or verse, or rhyme.
Forgotten sparks that burn no more sublime;
A Muse whose fickle whim will not engage.
No more do words with waxed emotion rage
Within the fallow fields beneath this clime,
Nor inspiration fill this world of mine;
The actors gone and left this empty stage.
I listen for a voice I cannot hear
And wait for it to speak with me,
To come relieve my solitude,
To whisper loving words within my ear.
For then will mine own writer’s heart be free
To sing, to leave this gloom eschewed.
— Scott Thornby, 22nd of July, 2014