Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Bless your buttons . . .
I have the nicest most supportive blog friends around. Thanks for your kind words about my poem. I hope that I didn't demean the writers of poetry by my comments in my last post. I have great respect for them as writers. I think it's the most difficult form of writing in fact. If I choose to read poetry for pleasure, I'm much more likely to choose one of the classics the "newfangled" poetry (anything written after 1800) tends to make my head spin to the point of making me feel lightheaded (ok - that's a bit of an exaggeration).
In college I took a class entirely on Shakespeare's sonnets. I love the musical form of this type of poem and - well - anything that is written by the Bard is top shelf in my book. The professor made the class one to remember. He was a visiting academic originally from Scotland. Can you imagine the music of that poetry read by an educated, flamingly homosexual (by his own admission)5 foot tall Scottish chap? It was glorious. He was delightfully animated and expressive and the great imagery just leapt off the page. The guy was an expert in his field and I think I stressed out over my papers in that class almost more than the ones I wrote for my Medieval Lit. prof who was like a female drill sargent. Thankfully, I fooled him into thinking I knew what I was talking about and he generously graded both my papers with an "A".
Here's one that I really enjoy . . .
Sonnet 60
Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end,
Each changing place with that which goes before,
In sequent toil all forwards do contend.
Nativity, once in the main of light,
Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crowned,
Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
And Time that gave doth now his gift confound.
Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.
And yet to times in hope my verse shall stand
Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.
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5 comments:
Hmmm.....beautiful sonnet.
I don't know why, but I've never thought of my own personal writing as an attempt at immortality.
Perhaps it is?
"...and nothing stands but for his scythe to mow"
What will be remembered of me after the scythe has mowed...?
I like Sonnet 60.
I had an entire Shakespeare semester too...we were made to memorize one thousand lines and (except for a large chunk of "A Mid-Summer Night's Dream") I concentrated on the sonnets b/c they were easier to hold in my head. This one is lovely.
Love,
D.
I am HORRIBLE at writing poems. So I really did like yours!
:)
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