My life was tinted purple by so much love,
and I veered helter-skelter like a blinded bird
till I reached your window, my friend:
you heard the murmur of a broken heart.
There from the shadows I rose to your breast:
without being or knowing, I flew up the towers of wheat,
I surged to life in your hands,
I rose from the sea to your joy.
No one can reckon what I owe you, Love,
what I owe you is lucid, it is like a root
from Arauco, what I owe you, Love.
Clearly, it is like a star, all that I owe you,
what I owe you is like a well in a wilderness
where time watches over the wandering lightning.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Or I shall live your epitaph to make
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten.
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die.
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'erread;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead.
You still shall live-such virtue hath my pen-
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Love dragged its tail of pain,
its train of static thorns behind it,
and we closed our eyes so that nothing,
so that no wound could divide us.
This crying, it's not your eyes' fault;
your hands didn't plunge that sword;
your feet didn't seek this path;
this somber honey found its own way to your heart.
When love like a huge wave
carried us, crashed us against the boulder,
it milled us to a single flour;
this sorrow fell into another, sweeter, face:
so in an open season of the light
this wounded springtime was blessed.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Then cautiously she pushed the cellar door
And stepped into the kitchen-saw the track
Of muddy rubber boots across the floor,
The many paper parcels in a stack
Upon the dresser; with accustomed care
Removed the twine and put the wrappings by,
Folded, and the bags flat, that with an air
Of ease had been whipped open skillfully,
To the gape of children. Treacherously dear
And simple was the dull, familiar task.
And so it was she came at length to as:
How came the soda there? The sugar here?
Then the dream broke. Silent, she brought the mop,
And forced the trade-slip on the nail that held his
razor strop.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Since of no creature living the last breath
Is twice required, or twice the ultimate pain,
Seeing how to quit your arms is very death,
'Tis likely that I shall not die again;
And likely 'tis that Time whose gross decree
Sends now the dawn to clamour at our door,
Thus having done his evil worst to me,
Will thrust me by, will harry me no more.
When you are corn and roses and at rest
I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost,
To haunt the scene where I was happiest,
To bend above the thing I loved the most;
And rise, and wring my hands, and steal away
As I do now, before the advancing day.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
O, how I faint when I of you do write,
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth willfully appear.
Your shallowest help wil hold me up afloat
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride,
Or, being wracked, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride.
Then, if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this: my love was my decay.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Though the world change swiftly
as the forms in clouds,
all perfected things fall back
to age-old ground.
Over what changes and passes,
wider and freer,
your deep song still hovers,
O god with the lyre.
Pain has not been understood,
love has not been learned,
and what in death removes us
remains undisclosed.
Alone over the land
song hallows and heals.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Three birds of the sea, three sunbeams, three scissors
crossed the cold sky toward Antofagasta:
that's why the air was left trembling,
why everything trembled like a wounded flag.
Loneliness, give me the sign of your ceaseless origins,
the path-hardly a path-of the cruel birds,
the palpitation that surely comes
before honey, music, the sea, a birth.
(Loneliness sustained by a constant face-
like a calm slow flower, constantly held out-
till it reaches the pure swarming throngs of the sky.)
Cold wings of the sea, of the archipelago, went
flying toward the sands of northeast Chile.
The night slid shut its heavenly bolt.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Those lines that I before have writ do lie,
Even those that said I could not love you dearer;
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to th' course of alt'ring things-
Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,
Might I not then say "Now I love you best,"
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe. Then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Feliciano me adora y le aborrezco;
Lisardo me aborrece y yo le adoro;
por quien no me apetece ingrato, lloro,
y al que me llora tierno, no apetezco.
A quien más me desdora, el alma ofrezco;
a quien me ofrece víctimas, desdoro;
desprecio al que enriquece mi decoro,
y al que le hace desprecios, enriquezco.
Si con mi ofensa al uno reconvengo,
me reconviene el otro a mí, ofendido;
y a padecer de todos modos vengo,
pues ambos atormentan mi sentido:
aquéste, con pedir lo que no tengo;
y aquél, con no tener lo que le pido.
Sonnet
Philip worships me and I abhor him;
Leonard hates me; and for him I yearn;
for him who would desire me not, I'm weeping,
and him who weeps for me I always spurn.
To him who'd shame me most, my soul I offer;
him who'd sacrifice for me, I shame;
I scorn him who'd exalt my reputation,
of him who'd scorn it, I exalt the name.
If I complain that one of them offends me,
the other censures me for some offense;
in either case I suffer in my task,
for each of them wreaks torture on my feelings:
the latter asking for what I don't have;
the former by not having what I ask.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The great rain from the South falls on Isla Negra
like a single drop, lucid and heavy,
the sea opens its cool leaves and receives it,
the earth learns how a wineglass fulfills
its wet destiny. In your kisses, my soul, give me the water,
salty from these months, the honey of the fields,
fragrance dampened by the sky's thousand lips,
the sacred patience of the sea in winter.
Something calls to us, all the doors turn
open by themselves, the rain repeats its rumor to the windows,
the sky grows downward till it touches the roots:
so the day weaves and unweaves its heavenly net,
with time, salt, whispers, growth, roads,
a woman, a man, and winter on the earth.
I'll write the Spanish translation, but I don't have a keyboard that supports the accents:
La gran lluvia del sur cae sobre Isla Negra
como una sola gota transparente y pesada,
el mar abre sus hojas frias y la recibe,
la tierra aprende el humedo destino de una copa.
Alma mia, dame en tus besos el agua
salobre de estos meses, la miel del territorio,
la fragancia mojada por mil labios del cielo,
la paciencia sagrada del mar en el invierno.
Algo nos llama, todas las puertas se abren solas,
relata el agua un largo rumor a las ventanas,
crece el cielo hacia abajo tocando las raices,
y asi teje y desteje su red celeste el dia
con tiempo, sal, susurros, crecimientos, caminos,
una mujer, un hombre, y el invierno en la tierra.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
From a long Winter’s dream did I waken,
Troubled, listless, coldest, as she held close,
Seeking Springtime’s bosom, earthly shaken
Still life paintings free all sprites, clogs mud prose
Of a story unwritten, black tar melts
In a spoon full of mad lust in the sand,
This swoon full is glad as far back black belts
Whip habits of nightmares- a quake, my hand
Grips the pen, my sword stains blood to paper,
Scenes of madness, scorned hearts cry for glad love,
Scorched souls die, yellow moon’s misted vapor
Casts no light in the shadowed pastel cove.
Autumn shares colors spilt about the scene,
I recall Summer’s scented flush of green.
Down the street you can hear her scream youre a disgrace
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
From a long Winter’s dream did I waken,
Troubled, listless, coldest, as she held close,
Seeking Springtime’s bosom, earthly shaken
Still life paintings free all sprites, clogs mud prose
Of a story unwritten, black tar melts
In a spoon full of mad lust in the sand,
This swoon full is glad as far back black belts
Whip habits of nightmares- a quake, my hand
Grips the pen, my sword stains blood to paper,
Scenes of madness, scorned hearts cry for glad love,
Scorched souls die, yellow moon’s misted vapor
Casts no light in the shadowed pastel cove.
Autumn shares colors spilt about the scene,
I recall Summer’s scented flush of green.
Very cool!
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
I'll write the German translation first. Again, I don't know how to make the little .. above the words or any accents.
Ruhmen, das ists! Ein zum Ruhmen Bestellter,
ging er hervor wie das Erz aus des Steins
Schweigen. Sein Herz, o vergangliche Kelter
eines den Menschen unendlichen Weins.
Nie versagt ihm die Stimme am Staube,
wenn ihn das gottliche Beispiel ergreift.
Alles wird Weinberg, alles wird Traube,
in seinem fuhlenden Suden gereift.
Nicht in den Gruften der Konige Moder
straft ihm die Ruhmung Lugen, oder
daB von den Gottern ein Schatten fallt.
Er ist einer der bleibenden Boten,
der noch weit in die Turen der Toten
Schalen mit ruhmlichen Fruchten halt.
Praising, that's it! One appointed to praise,
he came forth like ore out of the stone's
silence. His heart, O ephemeral winepress
for a vintage eternal to man.
Never does his voice die or turn to dust
when the divine moment seizes him.
All becomes vineyeard, all becomes grape,
ripened in his sentient South.
Not mold in the vaults of kings
nor any shadow falling from the gods
can give his songs the lie. **
He is one of the messengers who stay,
holding far into the doors of the dead
bowls heaped with fruit to be praised.
** Does this line seem too cliche in a translation? Or for those who know German, is this actually what is written?
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
That Love at length should find me out and bring
This fierce and trivial brow unto the dust,
Is, after all, I must confess, but just;
There is a subtle beauty in this thing,
A wry perfection; wherefore now let sing
All voices how into my throat is thrust,
Unwelcome as Death's own, Love's bitter crust,
All criers proclaim it, and all steeples ring.
This being done, there let the matter rest.
What more remains is neither here nor there.
That you requite me not is plain to see;
Myself your slave herein have I confessed:
Thus far, indeed, the world may mock at me;
But if I suffer, it is my own affair.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
In faith, I do not love thee with mine eyes.
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone.
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
From Two Sonnets in Memory (Nicola Sacco-Bartolomeo Vanzetti)
#2
Where can the heart be hidden in the ground
And be at peace, and be at peace forever,
Under the world, untroubled by the sound
Of mortal tears, that cease from pouring never?
Well for the heart, by stern compassion harried,
If death be deeper than the churchment say,-
Gone from this world indeed what's graveward carried,
And laid to rest indeed what's laid away.
Anguish enough while yet the indignant breather
Have blood to spurt upon the oppressor's hand;
Who would eternal be, and hang in ether
A stuffless ghost above his struggling land,
Retching in vain to render up the groan
That is not there, being aching dust's alone?
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
A sonnet usually, but not always, constitutes fourteen lines of iambic pentameter (dah-DAH dah-DAH dah-DAH dah-DAH dah-DAH, if it's a ten syllable line. You can add a "weak" or unstressed, eleventh syllable, if you like).
A sonnet is often separated formally and thematically into two parts. Firstly, there's an octet: eight lines, whigh state a theme or a thesis. Then there's a sestet: another six lines, which develop or question the theme.
The rhyme scheme can vary, but the two main schemes are, the Petrarchan (or "Italian" sonnet), rhymed abbaabba cdecde (or abbaabba cdccdc), and the Shakespearean (or "English" sonnet), rhymed ababcdcd efefgg. In the Shakespearean sonnet, the last two lines often conclude the theme, through the use of a pithy couplet.
The beginning of the seset, in the ninth line, is called a "volta", and it is characterised by thematic change.
Italian sonnets were often spoken by a first person narrator, talking about their (usually unrequited or unconsummated) lover in the third person.
The first person speaker of the first 126 of Shakespeare's 154 sonnets, talks to a second-person addressee ("you").
There's another English Renaissance form of sonnet you could look at: Spenser's ababbcbc cdcdee.
You could play with metre, too. Only someone with a stick up their arse stays rigidly by iambs (though internet poetry forums are plagued by pedants who insist on exactness).
A sonnet usually, but not always, constitutes fourteen lines of iambic pentameter (dah-DAH dah-DAH dah-DAH dah-DAH dah-DAH, if it's a ten syllable line. You can add a "weak" or unstressed, eleventh syllable, if you like).
if i like?
shit fins what i'd like is to be able to understand what is it you're telling me. :(
what are you telling me with the dah-DAHs?
hear my name
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
A sonnet starts, by setting out its theme:
This sonnet's theme is sonnet theme and form.
Please note at once this poem's rhyming scheme:
Shakespearean. (We'll treat that as the norm.)
This section of the sonnet's the octet,
eight lines to set the stage for a debate,
or discourse on a state of mind. You get
the gist this okay, so far, eh, cate?
Now here's the volta: major turnaround!
This sestet will develop or refute
the octet's points, with sentiments profound:
like, "there's no rule that's strict or absolute".
There's no sure rule, but may this sonnet point
to how the thing's constructed, joint-to-joint.
Line eight should be "the gist of this so far, eh, don't you, cate?"
Pentameter means a line with five metric feet, or countable beats. There are five beats in a line of a sonnet, and usually ten syllables (two per beat). The first syllable is usually unstressed, the second stressed.
For example, take this line:
shall I / comPARE / thee TO/ a SUMM/er's DAY?
It's da-DAH da-DAH da-DAH da-DAH da-DAH, in rhythm.
However, you could put the stresses in different places, according to how you speak. That's where the fun starts, with metre.
Check out Wikipedia, on iambic pentameter, if you're still stuck:
A ciascun'alma presa, e gentil core,
nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente,
in ciò che mi rescrivan suo parvente
salute in lor segnor, cioè Amore.
Già eran quasi che atterzate l'ore
del tempo che onne stella n'è lucente,
quando m'apparve Amor subitamente
cui essenza membrar mi dà orrore.
Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo
meo core in mano, e ne le braccia avea
madonna involta in un drappo dormendo.
Poi la svegliava, e d'esto core ardendo
lei paventosa umilmente pascea:
appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.
To every captive soul and gentle heart
into whose sight this present speech may come,
so that they might write its meaning for me,
greetings, in their lord’s name, who is Love.
Already a third of the hours were almost past
of the time when all the stars were shining,
when Amor suddenly appeared to me
whose memory fills me with terror.
Joyfully Amor seemed to me to hold
my heart in his hand, and held in his arms
my lady wrapped in a cloth sleeping.
Then he woke her, and that burning heart
he fed to her reverently, she fearing,
afterwards he went not to be seen weeping.
This is one of many translations - my italian is pretty basic so its difficult to ascertain how true to the original this translation is - but I love the way the Italian sounds and its fluency in speech - so I included it....The Penguin Edition of La Vita Nuova (which I've got but can't find anywhere) is a little more artfully constructed in the translation...and the rest of it...well, pure poetry...lol....H
What do you call 3 sheep tied together in the middle of Wales? - A Leisure Centre.
It's beautiful. One day, one day I'll write a sonnet for someone with such purity of spirit. . .
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
A sonnet starts, by setting out its theme:
This sonnet's theme is sonnet theme and form.
Please note at once this poem's rhyming scheme:
Shakespearean. (We'll treat that as the norm.)
This section of the sonnet's the octet,
eight lines to set the stage for a debate,
or discourse on a state of mind. You get
the gist this okay, so far, eh, cate?
Now here's the volta: major turnaround!
This sestet will develop or refute
the octet's points, with sentiments profound:
like, "there's no rule that's strict or absolute".
There's no sure rule, but may this sonnet point
to how the thing's constructed, joint-to-joint.
Fins, you SLAY me! You clever, man, you.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
It's beautiful. One day, one day I'll write a sonnet for someone with such purity of spirit. . .
But did such people ever exist, except as idyllic constructions of the speaker's imaginings? Often what makes poems such as Petrarch's Laura sonnets so powerful is the fact that she is simultaneously unattainable, virtuous yet also implicitly sexually knowing, as a married woman. Petrarch's physical wish for Laura is tangibly expressed, and his desire occasionally overwhelms his expression of his pure love for her; but then Laura dies, and Petrarch starts to struggle with the consequences of his desires, and how they undercut the piety of his grand love.
But did such people ever exist, except as idyllic constructions of the speaker's imaginings? Often what makes poems such as Petrarch's Laura sonnets so powerful is the fact that she is simultaneously unattainable, virtuous yet also implicitly sexually knowing, as a married woman. Petrarch's physical wish for Laura is tangibly expressed, and his desire occasionally overwhelms his expression of his pure love for her; but then Laura dies, and Petrarch starts to struggle with the consequences of his desires, and how they undercut the piety of his grand love.
So, you're saying, I should make someone up, and just get to it?
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Well, Laura might have existed in reality, but what matters is the "Laura" on the page!
Time to put my Bibliobella hat on, and think of Paolo in another time . . .
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Could someone post more purity of spirit love sonnets like the Dante one. I have love sonnets at home, but that just had a different feel than the others, and that would be what I'm going for.
There is no such thing as leftover pizza. There is now pizza and later pizza. - anonymous The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Comments
and I veered helter-skelter like a blinded bird
till I reached your window, my friend:
you heard the murmur of a broken heart.
There from the shadows I rose to your breast:
without being or knowing, I flew up the towers of wheat,
I surged to life in your hands,
I rose from the sea to your joy.
No one can reckon what I owe you, Love,
what I owe you is lucid, it is like a root
from Arauco, what I owe you, Love.
Clearly, it is like a star, all that I owe you,
what I owe you is like a well in a wilderness
where time watches over the wandering lightning.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Or you survive when I in earth am rotten.
From hence your memory death cannot take,
Although in me each part will be forgotten.
Your name from hence immortal life shall have,
Though I, once gone, to all the world must die.
The earth can yield me but a common grave,
When you entombed in men's eyes shall lie.
Your monument shall be my gentle verse,
Which eyes not yet created shall o'erread;
And tongues to be your being shall rehearse
When all the breathers of this world are dead.
You still shall live-such virtue hath my pen-
Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
its train of static thorns behind it,
and we closed our eyes so that nothing,
so that no wound could divide us.
This crying, it's not your eyes' fault;
your hands didn't plunge that sword;
your feet didn't seek this path;
this somber honey found its own way to your heart.
When love like a huge wave
carried us, crashed us against the boulder,
it milled us to a single flour;
this sorrow fell into another, sweeter, face:
so in an open season of the light
this wounded springtime was blessed.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Then cautiously she pushed the cellar door
And stepped into the kitchen-saw the track
Of muddy rubber boots across the floor,
The many paper parcels in a stack
Upon the dresser; with accustomed care
Removed the twine and put the wrappings by,
Folded, and the bags flat, that with an air
Of ease had been whipped open skillfully,
To the gape of children. Treacherously dear
And simple was the dull, familiar task.
And so it was she came at length to as:
How came the soda there? The sugar here?
Then the dream broke. Silent, she brought the mop,
And forced the trade-slip on the nail that held his
razor strop.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Since of no creature living the last breath
Is twice required, or twice the ultimate pain,
Seeing how to quit your arms is very death,
'Tis likely that I shall not die again;
And likely 'tis that Time whose gross decree
Sends now the dawn to clamour at our door,
Thus having done his evil worst to me,
Will thrust me by, will harry me no more.
When you are corn and roses and at rest
I shall endure, a dense and sanguine ghost,
To haunt the scene where I was happiest,
To bend above the thing I loved the most;
And rise, and wring my hands, and steal away
As I do now, before the advancing day.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,
And in the praise thereof spends all his might,
To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame.
But since your worth, wide as the ocean is,
The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,
My saucy bark, inferior far to his,
On your broad main doth willfully appear.
Your shallowest help wil hold me up afloat
Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride,
Or, being wracked, I am a worthless boat,
He of tall building and of goodly pride.
Then, if he thrive and I be cast away,
The worst was this: my love was my decay.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Though the world change swiftly
as the forms in clouds,
all perfected things fall back
to age-old ground.
Over what changes and passes,
wider and freer,
your deep song still hovers,
O god with the lyre.
Pain has not been understood,
love has not been learned,
and what in death removes us
remains undisclosed.
Alone over the land
song hallows and heals.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
crossed the cold sky toward Antofagasta:
that's why the air was left trembling,
why everything trembled like a wounded flag.
Loneliness, give me the sign of your ceaseless origins,
the path-hardly a path-of the cruel birds,
the palpitation that surely comes
before honey, music, the sea, a birth.
(Loneliness sustained by a constant face-
like a calm slow flower, constantly held out-
till it reaches the pure swarming throngs of the sky.)
Cold wings of the sea, of the archipelago, went
flying toward the sands of northeast Chile.
The night slid shut its heavenly bolt.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Even those that said I could not love you dearer;
Yet then my judgment knew no reason why
My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer.
But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents
Creep in 'twixt vows and change decrees of kings,
Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
Divert strong minds to th' course of alt'ring things-
Alas, why, fearing of time's tyranny,
Might I not then say "Now I love you best,"
When I was certain o'er incertainty,
Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?
Love is a babe. Then might I not say so,
To give full growth to that which still doth grow.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Feliciano me adora y le aborrezco;
Lisardo me aborrece y yo le adoro;
por quien no me apetece ingrato, lloro,
y al que me llora tierno, no apetezco.
A quien más me desdora, el alma ofrezco;
a quien me ofrece víctimas, desdoro;
desprecio al que enriquece mi decoro,
y al que le hace desprecios, enriquezco.
Si con mi ofensa al uno reconvengo,
me reconviene el otro a mí, ofendido;
y a padecer de todos modos vengo,
pues ambos atormentan mi sentido:
aquéste, con pedir lo que no tengo;
y aquél, con no tener lo que le pido.
Sonnet
Philip worships me and I abhor him;
Leonard hates me; and for him I yearn;
for him who would desire me not, I'm weeping,
and him who weeps for me I always spurn.
To him who'd shame me most, my soul I offer;
him who'd sacrifice for me, I shame;
I scorn him who'd exalt my reputation,
of him who'd scorn it, I exalt the name.
If I complain that one of them offends me,
the other censures me for some offense;
in either case I suffer in my task,
for each of them wreaks torture on my feelings:
the latter asking for what I don't have;
the former by not having what I ask.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
like a single drop, lucid and heavy,
the sea opens its cool leaves and receives it,
the earth learns how a wineglass fulfills
its wet destiny. In your kisses, my soul, give me the water,
salty from these months, the honey of the fields,
fragrance dampened by the sky's thousand lips,
the sacred patience of the sea in winter.
Something calls to us, all the doors turn
open by themselves, the rain repeats its rumor to the windows,
the sky grows downward till it touches the roots:
so the day weaves and unweaves its heavenly net,
with time, salt, whispers, growth, roads,
a woman, a man, and winter on the earth.
I'll write the Spanish translation, but I don't have a keyboard that supports the accents:
La gran lluvia del sur cae sobre Isla Negra
como una sola gota transparente y pesada,
el mar abre sus hojas frias y la recibe,
la tierra aprende el humedo destino de una copa.
Alma mia, dame en tus besos el agua
salobre de estos meses, la miel del territorio,
la fragancia mojada por mil labios del cielo,
la paciencia sagrada del mar en el invierno.
Algo nos llama, todas las puertas se abren solas,
relata el agua un largo rumor a las ventanas,
crece el cielo hacia abajo tocando las raices,
y asi teje y desteje su red celeste el dia
con tiempo, sal, susurros, crecimientos, caminos,
una mujer, un hombre, y el invierno en la tierra.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Troubled, listless, coldest, as she held close,
Seeking Springtime’s bosom, earthly shaken
Still life paintings free all sprites, clogs mud prose
Of a story unwritten, black tar melts
In a spoon full of mad lust in the sand,
This swoon full is glad as far back black belts
Whip habits of nightmares- a quake, my hand
Grips the pen, my sword stains blood to paper,
Scenes of madness, scorned hearts cry for glad love,
Scorched souls die, yellow moon’s misted vapor
Casts no light in the shadowed pastel cove.
Autumn shares colors spilt about the scene,
I recall Summer’s scented flush of green.
As she slams the door in his drunken face
And now he stands outside
And all the neighbours start to gossip and drool
He cries oh, girl you must be mad,
What happened to the sweet love you and me had?
Against the door he leans and starts a scene,
And his tears fall and burn the garden green
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Ruhmen, das ists! Ein zum Ruhmen Bestellter,
ging er hervor wie das Erz aus des Steins
Schweigen. Sein Herz, o vergangliche Kelter
eines den Menschen unendlichen Weins.
Nie versagt ihm die Stimme am Staube,
wenn ihn das gottliche Beispiel ergreift.
Alles wird Weinberg, alles wird Traube,
in seinem fuhlenden Suden gereift.
Nicht in den Gruften der Konige Moder
straft ihm die Ruhmung Lugen, oder
daB von den Gottern ein Schatten fallt.
Er ist einer der bleibenden Boten,
der noch weit in die Turen der Toten
Schalen mit ruhmlichen Fruchten halt.
Praising, that's it! One appointed to praise,
he came forth like ore out of the stone's
silence. His heart, O ephemeral winepress
for a vintage eternal to man.
Never does his voice die or turn to dust
when the divine moment seizes him.
All becomes vineyeard, all becomes grape,
ripened in his sentient South.
Not mold in the vaults of kings
nor any shadow falling from the gods
can give his songs the lie. **
He is one of the messengers who stay,
holding far into the doors of the dead
bowls heaped with fruit to be praised.
** Does this line seem too cliche in a translation? Or for those who know German, is this actually what is written?
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
This fierce and trivial brow unto the dust,
Is, after all, I must confess, but just;
There is a subtle beauty in this thing,
A wry perfection; wherefore now let sing
All voices how into my throat is thrust,
Unwelcome as Death's own, Love's bitter crust,
All criers proclaim it, and all steeples ring.
This being done, there let the matter rest.
What more remains is neither here nor there.
That you requite me not is plain to see;
Myself your slave herein have I confessed:
Thus far, indeed, the world may mock at me;
But if I suffer, it is my own affair.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who in despite of view is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted,
Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone.
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unswayed the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be.
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
#2
Where can the heart be hidden in the ground
And be at peace, and be at peace forever,
Under the world, untroubled by the sound
Of mortal tears, that cease from pouring never?
Well for the heart, by stern compassion harried,
If death be deeper than the churchment say,-
Gone from this world indeed what's graveward carried,
And laid to rest indeed what's laid away.
Anguish enough while yet the indignant breather
Have blood to spurt upon the oppressor's hand;
Who would eternal be, and hang in ether
A stuffless ghost above his struggling land,
Retching in vain to render up the groan
That is not there, being aching dust's alone?
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
A sonnet is often separated formally and thematically into two parts. Firstly, there's an octet: eight lines, whigh state a theme or a thesis. Then there's a sestet: another six lines, which develop or question the theme.
The rhyme scheme can vary, but the two main schemes are, the Petrarchan (or "Italian" sonnet), rhymed abbaabba cdecde (or abbaabba cdccdc), and the Shakespearean (or "English" sonnet), rhymed ababcdcd efefgg. In the Shakespearean sonnet, the last two lines often conclude the theme, through the use of a pithy couplet.
The beginning of the seset, in the ninth line, is called a "volta", and it is characterised by thematic change.
Italian sonnets were often spoken by a first person narrator, talking about their (usually unrequited or unconsummated) lover in the third person.
The first person speaker of the first 126 of Shakespeare's 154 sonnets, talks to a second-person addressee ("you").
There's another English Renaissance form of sonnet you could look at: Spenser's ababbcbc cdcdee.
You could play with metre, too. Only someone with a stick up their arse stays rigidly by iambs (though internet poetry forums are plagued by pedants who insist on exactness).
if i like?
shit fins what i'd like is to be able to understand what is it you're telling me. :(
what are you telling me with the dah-DAHs?
take a good look
this could be the day
hold my hand
lie beside me
i just need to say
This sonnet's theme is sonnet theme and form.
Please note at once this poem's rhyming scheme:
Shakespearean. (We'll treat that as the norm.)
This section of the sonnet's the octet,
eight lines to set the stage for a debate,
or discourse on a state of mind. You get
the gist this okay, so far, eh, cate?
Now here's the volta: major turnaround!
This sestet will develop or refute
the octet's points, with sentiments profound:
like, "there's no rule that's strict or absolute".
There's no sure rule, but may this sonnet point
to how the thing's constructed, joint-to-joint.
Pentameter means a line with five metric feet, or countable beats. There are five beats in a line of a sonnet, and usually ten syllables (two per beat). The first syllable is usually unstressed, the second stressed.
For example, take this line:
shall I / comPARE / thee TO/ a SUMM/er's DAY?
It's da-DAH da-DAH da-DAH da-DAH da-DAH, in rhythm.
However, you could put the stresses in different places, according to how you speak. That's where the fun starts, with metre.
Check out Wikipedia, on iambic pentameter, if you're still stuck:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iambic_pentameter
nel cui cospetto ven lo dir presente,
in ciò che mi rescrivan suo parvente
salute in lor segnor, cioè Amore.
Già eran quasi che atterzate l'ore
del tempo che onne stella n'è lucente,
quando m'apparve Amor subitamente
cui essenza membrar mi dà orrore.
Allegro mi sembrava Amor tenendo
meo core in mano, e ne le braccia avea
madonna involta in un drappo dormendo.
Poi la svegliava, e d'esto core ardendo
lei paventosa umilmente pascea:
appresso gir lo ne vedea piangendo.
To every captive soul and gentle heart
into whose sight this present speech may come,
so that they might write its meaning for me,
greetings, in their lord’s name, who is Love.
Already a third of the hours were almost past
of the time when all the stars were shining,
when Amor suddenly appeared to me
whose memory fills me with terror.
Joyfully Amor seemed to me to hold
my heart in his hand, and held in his arms
my lady wrapped in a cloth sleeping.
Then he woke her, and that burning heart
he fed to her reverently, she fearing,
afterwards he went not to be seen weeping.
This is one of many translations - my italian is pretty basic so its difficult to ascertain how true to the original this translation is - but I love the way the Italian sounds and its fluency in speech - so I included it....The Penguin Edition of La Vita Nuova (which I've got but can't find anywhere) is a little more artfully constructed in the translation...and the rest of it...well, pure poetry...lol....H
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
But did such people ever exist, except as idyllic constructions of the speaker's imaginings? Often what makes poems such as Petrarch's Laura sonnets so powerful is the fact that she is simultaneously unattainable, virtuous yet also implicitly sexually knowing, as a married woman. Petrarch's physical wish for Laura is tangibly expressed, and his desire occasionally overwhelms his expression of his pure love for her; but then Laura dies, and Petrarch starts to struggle with the consequences of his desires, and how they undercut the piety of his grand love.
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
Well, Laura might have existed in reality, but what matters is the "Laura" on the page!
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird
The risk I took was calculated, but man, am I bad at math - The Mincing Mockingbird