911 - A Shameful Act (Petrarchan Sonnet)

The Petrarchan or Italian sonnet is named after the Italian renaissance poet Francesco Petrarca (Petrarch in English, 1304-1374). It rhymes as follows: abbaabba in the first eight lines (the octave), and variously in the last six (the sestet): cdcdcd, cdecde, ccdccd, cddcdd, cdecde, or cddcee. The Petrarchan sonnet has a two-part structure; the break between the octave and sestet is called the Volta ("turn" or "turning point"). The octave presents an argument, and the sestet has the shift or turning point. It presents an irony, paradox or solution to the argument in the octave and may or may not be indicated by a stanza break. Finally, Petrarch's "Sonnet CLIX" (translated by Marion Shore) is one of his most famous. This Petrarchan (Italian) sonnet, 911 Response-A Shameful Act, is written in the following format: a-b-b-a / a-b-b-a /c-d-d-c / e-e:

911-A Shameful Act (Petrarchan Sonnet)

How To Write A Sonnet

It was shameful in fact such a gross act

911 - A Shameful Act (Petrarchan Sonnet)

Why would anyone cherish such a thought?

Knowing they would be hunted down and caught?

Believed they could get away-such a crack!

Why such bad deeds and ways to overact?

By the end we would uncover their veils

Why would they believe they were tough as nails?

Why did you act like a snotty nosed brat?

Your love will remove the scales from their eyes

Reveal unto them the true path to walk

Your love will touch their hearts and make them talk

Let them stand before You and hear their cries

Many lost their lives on that tragic day

Grant them peace as their loved ones always pray 

911 - A Shameful Act (Petrarchan Sonnet) Reading the Muse (poem) Video Clips. Duration : 0.97 Mins.

I swear, one of these days I'll break out of the sonnet form... And to write something that isn't me whining about not being able to write! Haha So there you are, my sweet, beguiling Muse; I thought you must be hiding in this fray. I called your name, but always you refuse To come lay out a song for me to play. I wish that I could learn to read your moods, And use them all, to ride upon their waves. Instead, I'm subject to your inner fueds; I wait for calm, that I might read the graves Where buried are the passion's of your heart, The heat of life long gone. Tis retrospect That teaches me the feelings for my art. To capture what you've said, I must reflect. I call for you when passion's beg release- Instead, I'm forced to glean while carrions feast.

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