Sonnet Thread

Ms. Haiku

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.

olderman

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.

Ms. Haiku

olderman wrote:

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!

Ms. Haiku

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?

Ms. Haiku

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.

Ms. Haiku

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.

Ms. Haiku

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?

catefrances

if someone would be so kind as to explain the concept of the sonnet to me, i will have a go at writing one.

FinsburyParkCarrots

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).

catefrances

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

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?

FinsburyParkCarrots

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.

FinsburyParkCarrots

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:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Iambic_pentameter

HunterandHunted

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

Ms. Haiku

It's beautiful. One day, one day I'll write a sonnet for someone with such purity of spirit. . .

Ms. Haiku

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

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.

FinsburyParkCarrots

Ms. Haiku wrote:

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.

Ms. Haiku

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

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?

FinsburyParkCarrots

Ms. Haiku wrote:

So, you're saying, I should make someone up, and just get to it?

Well, Laura might have existed in reality, but what matters is the "Laura" on the page!

Ms. Haiku

FinsburyParkCarrots wrote:

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 . . .

Ms. Haiku

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.