Sonnet 30
Robert Stonehouse
30
VVhen to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
I sommon vp remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
Then can I drowne an eye(vn-vs'd to flow)
For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
And weepe a fresh loues long since canceld woe,
And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
Then can I greeue at greeuances fore-gon,
And heauily from woe to woe tell ore
The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
Which I new pay,as if not payd before.
But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
All losses are restord,and sorrowes end.
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
Then can I drown an eye unused to flow
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night
And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan
Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
Art Neuendorffer
>
> VVhen to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> I sommon vp remembrance of things past,
> I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> Then can I drowne an eye(vn-vs'd to flow)
> For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> And weepe a fresh loues long since canceld woe,
> And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> Then can I greeue at greeuances fore-gon,
> And heauily from woe to woe tell ore
> The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> Which I new pay,as if not payd before.
> But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> All losses are restord,and sorrowes end.
Bacon, Marlowe & the Stratman were ambitious young men
who all had remarkable success in their endeavours.
Art N.
Art Neuendorffer
http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/swannsway/summary.html
<<Swann's Way tells two related stories, the first of which revolves around
Marcel, a younger version of the narrator, and his experiences in, and
memories of, the French town Combray. Inspired by the "gusts of memory" that
rise up within him as he dips a Madeleine into hot tea, the narrator
discusses his fear of going to bed at night. He is a creature of habit and
dislikes waking up in the middle of the night not knowing where he is. He
claims that people are defined by the objects that surround them and must
piece together their identities bit by bit each time they wake up. The young
Marcel is so nervous about sleeping alone that he looks forward to his
mother's goodnight kisses, but also dreads them as a sign of an impending
sleepless night. One night, when Charles Swann, a friend of his
grandparents, is visiting, his mother cannot come kiss him goodnight. He
stays up until Swann leaves and looks so sad and pitiful that even his
disciplinarian father encourages "Mamma" to spend the night in Marcel's
room.
The narrator traces the roots of his inclination to become a writer back to
Combray. His grandparents and friends encourage him to read and introduce
him to Bergotte, who becomes his favorite author. Marcel is awestruck by the
overpowering beauty of the landscape around Combray, especially the hawthorn
blossoms that line the path to Swann's house. He loves to fall asleep in the
shade of these blossoms and then walk around the outskirts of Combray, where
he can admire the town church. Watching the sun reflect off the roof tiles
of the church steeple, Marcel decides to become a writer and describes what
he sees to the best of his ability. One day, he accidentally comes across an
open window at M. Vinteuil's house. A composer, Vinteuil died of a broken
heart after his daughter took another woman as her lover. Marcel spies on
the two lovers as they mock the memory of the recently deceased Vinteuil. On
a separate walk, Marcel and his family chance across Swann's wife, Odette,
and her daughter, Gilberte. Marcel instantly falls in love with Gilberte,
but idealizes her to such an extent that he thinks her black eyes are really
blue.
The novel now carries the reader back fifteen years to relate the second
story--that of the love affair between Swann and Odette. Swann does not know
that Odette has a terrible reputation and, thinking she will be harder to
seduce than she really is, takes up an interest in her. He finds her only
vaguely attractive, however, until one day when he realizes that she
resembles Botticelli's beautiful rendering of Jethro's daughter in his
painting Zipporrah. Idealizing Odette through the intermediary of the
painting, Swann respects her beauty with all his heart and starts to obsess
about her day and night. Odette introduces Swann to the Verdurins and their
nightly salon. At first, they love Swann's company and make him one of their
"faithful" guests. One night, after failing to see Odette at the Verdurins,
Swann looks for her all over Paris. When they finally run into each other,
their passion ignites and they become lovers. The Verdurins constantly play
Vinteuil's sonata, whose piercing violin crescendos make Swann so happy that
he fixes an association in his mind between the music and his love for
Odette.
Nevertheless, Odette quickly begins to tire of Swann, who in turn is
hopelessly in love with her. He suspects that she is cheating on him because
she is such an awful liar, but his obsession for her runs so deep that he
ignores the truth about their failed romance until there is no turning back:
he must suffer the tormenting pangs of unrequited love. The Verdurins grow
suspicious and jealous of Swann's famous friends, including the Prince of
Wales, and begin to push him out of their social circle. Odette begins to
cheat on Swann with Forcheville, another of the Verdurins' guests; Swann
discovers this infidelity by reading one of Odette's letters to Forcheville.
One of Swann's closest friends, Charlus, tries to turn Odette back toward
Swann but ends up sending him an anonymous letter about Odette's history of
infidelity. Swann finally confronts her and learns the truth about her
torrid sexual escapades. Dumbfounded, Swann retreats back into the high
society of aristocrats and royalty that he had enjoyed before meeting
Odette. His suffering soon diminishes, and he gets used to seeing her only
rarely. One day, after realizing the extent to which he had based his vision
of Odette on the idealized version of a Botticelli figure, Swann exclaims
disbelief at having experienced the greatest love of his life for a woman
who wasn't his "type.">>
Art Neuendorffer
<<Once upon a time and a VERy good time it was there was a moocow coming
down along the road and this moocow that was coming down along the road met
a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass: he
had a hairy face.
He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road where Betty Byrne lived:
she sold lemon platt.
O, the wild rose blossoms
On the little GREEN place.
He sang that song. That was his song.
O, the GREEN wothe botheth.
When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold. His mother put on
the oilsheet. That had the QUEER smell.
His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano the
sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:
Tralala lala,
Tralala tralaladdy,
Tralala lala,
Tralala lala.
UNCLE CHARLES and Dante clapped. They were older than his father and mother
but UNCLE CHARLES was older than Dante.
-------------------------------------------
The Stratman wrote to works I know
For the scholars tells me so
Who'd get attribution wrong
When Avon has it's own SWANN song.
-------------------------------------------
http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/swannsway/section1.html
OVERture Summary
The narrator, who will eventually become known as Marcel, opens the novel by
revealing, "For a long time I used to go to bed early." He relates how
difficult it was for him to fall asleep as a young boy. The narrator himself
then seems to fall asleep, imagining that he is the subject of the book he
was just reading, then opening his eyes to discover that he really had
fallen asleep and has just woken himself up into darkness. Marcel is not so
afraid of the dark as he is of losing his sense of time. He marvels at
sleep's ability to rob people of their individuality, making them forget who
they are when they wake and forcing them to piece together the different
components of their lives. Despite these "confused gusts of memory," the
recurring nature of this confusion allows Marcel to get used to the dark
surroundings and recall exactly where he fell asleep. The night,
nevertheless, continues to set his memory in motion, and the narrator begins
to recall the old days at Combray, Paris, BALBEC, and Venice.
Marcel recounts that whenever he visited his grandparents's house in the
Northern French village of Combray, his bedroom, in which his insomnia would
keep him up all night long, would make him melancholic. In order to make him
feel better, the young Marcel is given a "magic lantern" which projects
pictures from children's stories onto his bedroom walls. This device,
however, only makes Marcel unable to recognize his room underneath the
shifting colors, and he soon begins to fear bedtime more than before. His
only solace is the goodnight kiss his mother gives him each night, even
though he knows that his father disapproves of this ritual and that his
mother secretly hopes that he will grow out of it. But Marcel comes to
depend on these short but sweet kisses as though they were a life-saving
medicine.
The only nights his mother does not come to kiss him goodnight are those on
which his family is entertaining guests, which invariably include CHARLES
SWANN. SWANN's father and Marcel's grandfather had been very close, and
CHARLES continues to visit and send gifts to Marcel's family, even though
they do not approve of his marriage. No one knows that CHARLES has become an
elite member of Parisian society and is often seen with aristocrats and even
royalty. As a result, Marcel's family continues to treat him with a comic
indifference and slight rudeness that they consider appropriate toward a man
of the middle-class. However, everyone, except Marcel, looks forward to his
visits and stories; Marcel knows that SWANN's presence means that his mother
will not kiss him goodnight.
One night, when Marcel's father does not let Marcel even peck his mother on
the cheek as he leaves for bed, Marcel decides to revolt. He has the maid,
Franēoise, take his mother, who is still entertaining SWANN, a note begging
her to come see him. At first "Mamma" refuses, but once SWANN has gone and
she sees how miserable Marcel is, she decides to spend the night in his
room. He is shocked when his father urges her to stay in Marcel's room. Even
though Marcel feels victorious at first, he soon realizes that "winning" his
mother's presence required his parents' acknowledgment that Marcel suffers
from a nervous ailment. His guilt makes him cry even more, and his mother
must read a book out loud to calm his nerves.
The story returns to Marcel the narrator. Breaking with his usual habit one
afternoon, Marcel drinks tea with a petite madeleine, or small sponge cake,
which instantly soothes his daily troubles and eventually reminds him of a
similar combination of cake and tea he used to enjoy at Combray. Marveling
at the random connections between present and past and at the involuntary
nature of memory, he sets out to describe his reminiscences of Combray.
Commentary
This opening section, appropriately titled "OVERture," sets the thematic and
stylistic tone not only for the rest of SWANN's Way, but also for the other
novels in Proust's series, translated from French as Remembrance of Things
Past. [It is interesting to note that Proust himself was translating from a
Shakespearean sonnet: "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought / I
summon up remembrance of things past…"(Sonnet XXX, 1-2).] Proust loved
music, and by calling this opening section "OVERture," he implies a clear
association between his prose and the notes of a composer. Much like a
symphony's overture, the opening section of SWANN's Way establishes the
various themes of the forthcoming composition before the individual
movements begin.
One of these major themes is the relationship between time and memory, which
served, perhaps, as Proust's primary motivation for writing Remembrance of
Things Past. Proust believed that time was not necessarily a linear,
clock-like, measure of fixed and unchangeable moments. Instead, he believed
that time, or duration, as he liked to call it, involved a "flowing
together" of different moments and experiences so that one individual point
in time was indistinguishable from any other. An excellent illustration of
this hypothesis is the famous madeleine scene, in which an older Marcel is
suddenly pulled back in time to Combray from the simple association of the
taste of cake dipped in tea. At first, Marcel tries to force his memory to
travel back in time to the moment when he last had a madeleine; he succeeds,
however, in evoking the memory of Combray only when he lets his guard down
and thinks of the taste of the cake itself. This involuntary and seemingly
random power of the memory to carry a person back in time forms the
stylistic and thematic foundation of SWANN's Way.
Two more important themes emerge in this section, the first of which is
Marcel's complex emotional attitude toward his mother. Marcel's mother
occupies an important place in the novel; Marcel looks to her for guidance,
sympathy, and love, but when he receives these comforts, he feels guilty
about not being more independent. Marcel experiences this guilt by
envisioning the effects that his need for his mother has on her. He
imagines, for example, that begging his mother to spend the night with him
"traced a first wrinkle upon her soul and brought out a first white hair on
her head." As a result, their relationship is tainted by Marcel's belief
that he is always causing her some sort of grief. The Oedipal triangle
between Marcel, his mother, and his father serves as a model for various
relationships throughout SWANN's Way.
The second important theme in this section is the interaction between habit
or routine and memory. The "magic lantern" and the images it projects on
young Marcel's bedroom walls at Combray make him unable to recognize his
room; as a result, he feels lost in time, and must struggle to remember
where and when he is. In this instance, breaking with habit (changing the
habitual appearance of his room) causes Marcel anguish, but in the episode
of the madeleine, breaking with his usual routine by having tea causes his
pleasurable reminiscences of Combray to resurface.
It is important to remember that a substantial amount of the plot material
in SWANN's Way is autobiographical. The narrator's memories, as well as his
hopes and fears, are often what Proust himself wished to recall from his own
youth. Nevertheless, Proust firmly believed that the life of an author had
almost nothing to do with his written work. His aim in writing SWANN's Way
was thus, paradoxically, to base the story on his own experiences while
dissociating his own identity as much as possible from that of the character
Marcel.>>
----------------------------------------------
Art Neuendorffer
Art Neuendorffer
> VVhen to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> I sommon vp remembrance of things past,
> I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
http://www3.telus.net/oxford/oxfordspoems.html#toppoems
"That I do WASTE with OTHERS' LOVE,
that HATH myself in HATE," - E.O.
---------------------------------------------------------
But beauties WASTE HATH in the world an end,
And kept vnvsde the vser so destroyes it:
No LOUE toward OTHERS in that bosome sits
That on himselfe such murdrous shame commits. - Sonnet 9
---------------------------------------------------------
<<If OTHERS have their WILL Ann HATH a way.>> - James Joyce
'I HATE' from HATE away SHE threw,
And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'
_____ Sonnet 145
Capital Letters: 145 (= 5 x 29)
.
_ T O.T H E.
_ O N L I E.
_ B E G E T
_ T E R.O F.
_ T H E S E.
_ I N S V I
_ N G.S O N
_ N E T S Mr
[W]H A L L. W{H}
A H[A]P P I ___ {H}A
| _ N E[S]S E. ______ S
| _ A N D[T]H _____ T H
[2 9] A T.E T[E] ______ T E?
| _ R N I T I _____ T
| _ E P R O M
v I S E D.B
_ Y.O V R.E
_ V E R-L I
_ V I N G.P
_ O E T.W I
_ S H E T H.
_ T H E.W E
_ L L-W I S
_ H I N G.A
_ D V E N T
_ V R E R I
_ N.S E T T
_ I N G.F O
_ R T H.T.T.
.
Shakspere Blazon and Coat of Arms:
"Gold on a BEND sable, a spear of the first,"
.
BEND: a diagonal bar, 1/5th the width of the shield,
from upper left to lower right as one faces the shield.
136 I S A[T]W I[I]A[T]T F T
135 W A M[T]W N[S]A[T]A S O
134 S A M[T]B F[H]V[T]T A S
133 B F[I]B M A O A P B W T
131 T A F T Y T T A A A O T
130 M C I I I B A T I T I M
129 T I I S I P P O M H A B
128 H V W T D T W A T A O M
127 I O B A F F S B T H A S
126 O D W T[I]A S M Y S H A
125 W W O W H L F P N A W B
124 Y I A W N I V W I W B T
123 N T T T O W A T T N F M
122 T F W B O H T O T N T T
121 T W A N F G O W N A I B
120 T A N V F A A[T]O M A T
119 W D A S W W H I O T A G
118 L W A W E T A T T T A W
117 A W F W T A T W B A B B
116 L A W O O T I W L W L B
115 T E Y M B C T D A M W C
114 O D O A T S C A O A[M]A
113 S A D S F O O N F T T T
112 Y W F S Y T N T I O T M
111 O T T T T A T P W P N N
110 A A G M M A T A N M O A
109 O T A A T L I S N A T T
108 W W W T N I C E S W N B
107 N O C S T A I[A]N M S W
106 W I A I T O I E S O A T
105 L N S T K S T O F F A T
104 T F S H T I T S A S S H
103 A T T T O L T D W T F T
102 M I T T O W A A N T B A
101 O F B S M T B B B E T A
100 W T S D[R]I S A R I I A
99 T S I W I T A T O A A B
98 F W H T Y O C O N N T D
97 H F W W A T B L Y B F A
96 S S B T A T S T H I H I
95 H W D O T M C N O W W A
94 T T W V T A T O T T B T
93 S[L]M T F T I I B T W T
92 B F A F T W I T T S O H
91 S S S S A W B A T R O A
90 T N I A A C G T I W B A
89 S A S A T T A I B T L A
88 W A V A W V[O]T A F T D
87 F A T M F A T A T O S C
86 W B T M W A N G H W A I
85 M W R A I A T I H A B T
84 W T I W L T B T L N A M
83 I A I T A T H S T W F[W]
David L. Webb
"Art Neuendorffer" <aneuendor...@comcast.net>
(aneuendor...@comicass.nut) wrote:
[...]
> The Stratman wrote to [sic] works I know
> For the scholars tells [sic] me so
> Who'd get attribution wrong
> When Avon has it's [sic] own SWANN song.
You're incorrigible, Art.
[Lunatic logorrhea snipped]
Art Neuendorffer
<<Once upon a time and a VERy good time it was there was a moocow
coming down along the road and this moocow that was coming down
along the road met a nicens little boy named baby tuckoo
His father told him that story: his father looked at him through a glass:
he had a hairy face.
He was baby tuckoo. The moocow came down the road
where Betty Byrne lived: she sold lemon platt.
O, the wild rose blossoms
On the little GREEN place.
He sang that song. That was his song.
O, the GREEN wothe botheth.
When you wet the bed first it is warm then it gets cold.
His mother put on the oilsheet. That had the QUEER smell.
His mother had a nicer smell than his father. She played on the piano
the sailor's hornpipe for him to dance. He danced:
Tralala lala,
Tralala tralaladdy,
Tralala lala,
Tralala lala.
UNCLE CHARLES and Dante clapped. They were older than his father
and mother but UNCLE CHARLES was older than Dante.
---------------------------------------------------------------
The Stratman wrote the works I know
For the scholars tell me so
Who'd get attribution wrong
When Avon has its own SWANN song.
------------------------------------------
If you smell chicken soup
In the hlas usergroup
And an Oxfordian comes to the fore,
Who is basically pig
A Kempe dancing a jig
You will know you have met Lynne the Boar.
You are glued to the spot;
Will she kill you or not?
No need to have fears about that.
Now she's made you stand fast,
And you're cornered at last,
All she wants is a nice little chat.
---------------------------------------------------
http://www.sparknotes.com/lit/swannsway/section1.html
OVERture Summary
Françoise, take his mother, who is still entertaining SWANN, a note begging
her to come see him. At first "Mamma" refuses, but once SWANN has gone and
she sees how miserable Marcel is, she decides to spend the night in his
room. He is shocked when his father urges her to stay in Marcel's room. Even
though Marcel feels victorious at first, he soon realizes that "winning" his
mother's presence required his parents' acknowledgment that Marcel suffers
from a nervous ailment. His guilt makes him cry even more, and his mother
must read a book out loud to calm his nerves.
The story returns to Marcel the narrator. Breaking with his usual habit one
afternoon, Marcel drinks tea with a petite madeleine, or small sponge cake,
which instantly soothes his daily troubles and eventually reminds him of a
similar combination of cake and tea he used to enjoy at Combray. Marveling
at the random connections between present and past and at the involuntary
nature of memory, he sets out to describe his reminiscences of Combray.
Commentary
This opening section, appropriately titled "OVERture," sets the thematic and
stylistic tone not only for the rest of SWANN's Way, but also for the other
novels in Proust's series, translated from French as Remembrance of Things
Past. [It is interesting to note that Proust himself was translating from a
Shakespearean sonnet: "When to the sessions of sweet silent thought / I
summon up remembrance of things past."(Sonnet XXX, 1-2).] Proust loved
Art Neuendorffer
Paul Crowley
> I sommon vp remembrance of things past,
> I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> Then can I drowne an eye(vn-vs'd to flow)
> For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> And weepe a fresh loues long since canceld woe,
> And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> Then can I greeue at greeuances fore-gon,
> And heauily from woe to woe tell ore
> The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> Which I new pay,as if not payd before.
> But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> All losses are restord,and sorrowes end.
All modern commentators take this sonnet
as straight -- not reading it for tone, in any
respect. I find that very strange. Steevens
in 1780 deplored the "laboured perplexities
of language" and the "studied deformities of
style". The poet is clearly up to something
out of the ordinary. He did not go out of his
way to write bad lines or use figures of
speech (such as alliteration) so clumsily.
Surely the first task of a commentator is
to attempt to work out what the poet was
trying to achieve?
Paul.
Gary Kosinsky
<ew...@bcs.org.invalid> copied:
> 30
>When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
>I summon up remembrance of things past,
>I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought
>And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
>Then can I drown an eye unused to flow
>For precious friends hid in death's dateless night
>And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe
>And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.
>Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
>And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
>The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan
>Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
> But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
> All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
A very similar poem, in theme, to 29. The poet's
downcast mood can be dispelled by simply thinking of the
addressee.
- Gary Kosinsky
Gary Kosinsky
So what?
- Gary Kosinsky
Robert Stonehouse
>
> 30
>When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
When I sit pleasantly, quietly thinking,
>I summon up remembrance of things past,
and recall to mind memories of the past,
>I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought
I regret a lot of things I tried to get, and failed,
>And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste.
and mourn all over again the unproductive passing of my
precious life.
>Then can I drown an eye unused to flow
Then I fill my eyes with tears, though they are not
accustomed to weep,
>For precious friends hid in death's dateless night
at the thought of people I loved, who are now for ever dead,
>And weep afresh love's long-since-cancelled woe
and pay again love's debt of sadness, long ago marked
'paid',
>And moan the expense of many a vanished sight.
and mourn the expiry of so much that is no longer to be
seen.
>Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
Then I revive my sorrow at sorrows that went long before,
>And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
and sadly count up, from one grief to another,
>The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan
the sorrowful list of mourning already mourned
>Which I new pay, as if not paid before.
which I pay again as if it had never yet been paid.
> But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
But if meanwhile you, my friend, happen to come into my
mind,
> All losses are restored, and sorrows end.
everything I have lost is made good, and all mourning is
finished.
Line 1. Another 'when' poem, the first two lines of which
clearly recall Wordsworth's 'recollected in tranquillity'.
The development of the thought is very like the previous
sonnet, but the passage from sorrow to happiness is later
and less dramatic - and it is not the same kind of sorrow.
The poem contains a lot of legal language. 'The sessions'
means a period when the courts are sitting and defendants
are 'summoned' to appear before them. But the use is not
precise (pace Burrow): thinking of 'remembrance' as a
defendant does not really help us to understand the poem.
'Sweet' turns out to be an inaccurate description;
Shakespeare catches us out again.
Line 4. Remarkable that the poet thinks of his time as
wasted, when this is Shakespeare speaking. 'With what I most
enjoy contented least.'
Line 5. The Quarto brackets 'unused to flow', which
correctly points how the line must be spoken, though it is
against modern punctuation practice. But there is something
similar in 'old woes, new wail' which the Quarto cannot
indicate.
Line 7. The poem is full of adverb-adjective combinations:
'fore-gone', 'fore-bemoaned', and so I have (provocatively?)
hyphenated 'long-since-cancelled' which is too much for some
of the editors (but not for Burrow or Wells).
The thought of mourning as a debt due to the dead continues
up to line 12.
Line 9, 'grievances fore-gone'. Grievances are causes of
grief, but not things to attack someone for as they are now
(e.g. "There will always be terrorism, as long as there are
people with grievances"). Fore-gone is just 'gone before'.
It is verb and adverb, not the word that means 'deliberately
abstain', and so I keep the hyphen.
Line 13. I think the poet means 'happening to think of you',
not a deliberate grief-reduction technique.
Line 14. The losses are the things lost; the sorrows are the
effect of their loss on the speaker's internal state.
Art Neuendorffer
> > Sonnet 30
> >>
> >> VVhen to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> >> I sommon vp remembrance of things past,
> >> I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> >> And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> >> Then can I drowne an eye(vn-vs'd to flow)
> >> For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> >> And weepe a fresh loues long since canceld woe,
> >> And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> >> Then can I greeue at greeuances fore-gon,
> >> And heauily from woe to woe tell ore
> >> The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> >> Which I new pay,as if not payd before.
> >> But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> >> All losses are restord,and sorrowes end.
> >
> >Bacon, Marlowe & the Stratman were ambitious young men
> > who all had remarkable success in their endeavours.
"Gary Kosinsky" <gk...@vcn.bc.ca> wrote
> So what?
Why would any of these folks write this sonnet?
Art
Gary Kosinsky
Art wrote:
>
> Why would any of these folks write this sonnet?
Even successful people can have "woes" in their
lives, as well as having friends who have passed away and
having undergone failed love affairs.
There's nothing in this sonnet, as far as I can see,
that precludes it being written by someone who is successful
in some form or another.
- Gary Kosinsky
Art Neuendorffer
> >
> >> > Sonnet 30
> >> >>
> >> >> VVhen to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> >> >> I sommon vp remembrance of things past,
> >> >> I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> >> >> And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> >> >> Then can I drowne an eye(vn-vs'd to flow)
> >> >> For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> >> >> And weepe a fresh loues long since canceld woe,
> >> >> And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> >> >> Then can I greeue at greeuances fore-gon,
> >> >> And heauily from woe to woe tell ore
> >> >> The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> >> >> Which I new pay,as if not payd before.
> >> >> But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> >> >> All losses are restord,and sorrowes end.
> >> >
> >> >Bacon, Marlowe & the Stratman were ambitious young men
> >> > who all had remarkable success in their endeavours.
> >
> >"Gary Kosinsky" <gk...@vcn.bc.ca> wrote
> >
> >> So what?
>
> Art wrote:
> > Why would any of these folks write this sonnet?
"Gary Kosinsky" <gk...@vcn.bc.ca> wrote
> Even successful people can have "woes" in their
> lives, as well as having friends who have passed away
> and having undergone failed love affairs.
>
> There's nothing in this sonnet, as far as I can see,
> that precludes it being written by someone
> who is successful in some form or another.
It's amazing how one can get responses ONLY by lowering
the conversation level down to the really stupid dumb level.
Art Neuendorffer (bored silly!)
BCD
***Quite, with a slightly different slant, dipped in a little
commercial terminology (cancelling debts, expenses, restoring
losses).
***Isn't this the first time that the poet has referred to other
friends as being or having been at least somewhat on the same
emotional level as the present addressee?--at least, he's a-weeping
about 'em.
***While his eye (right or left?) is "unused to flow," it seems like
the poet is doing a lot of weeping and wailing these days. Get a
grip, Will!
Best Wishes,
--BCD
Web Site: http://www.csulb.edu/~odinthor
Visit unknown Los Angeles: http://www.csulb.edu/~odinthor/socal1.html
Gary Kosinsky
It must be frustrating, Art. Why don't you engage
Paul in a discussion? He seems to get annoyed by
superficial approaches to the Sonnets as well.
- Gary Kosinsky
Gary Kosinsky
wrote:
SNIP
>***Isn't this the first time that the poet has referred to other
>friends as being or having been at least somewhat on the same
>emotional level as the present addressee?--at least, he's a-weeping
>about 'em.
True, but then he seems to forget about them as soon
as he thinks of the addressee.
- Gary Kosinsky
Buffalo
"Art Neuendorffer" <aneuendor...@comcast.net> wrote in message
news:GoSdna0zscM...@comcast.com...
But you've been doing that for at least as long as I've been on hlas. I
haven't noticed you getting many responses, apart from those regular
missives from David, which usually end "<lunatic logorrhea snipped>". Why
don't you try raising the standard above the really stupid dumb level, and
see if that has any effect.
Buffalo
David L. Webb
gk...@vcn.bc.ca (Gary Kosinsky) wrote:
I almost asked the same question. But if I asked that every time Art
posted something apparently pointless, I would be compelled to repeat
the question some 12,500 times (although by now it may be up to 13,000).
[...]
Art Neuendorffer
> <aneuendor...@comcast.net> wrote:
> > It's amazing how one can get responses ONLY by lowering
> > the conversation level down to the really stupid dumb level.
> >
> >Art Neuendorffer (bored silly!)
"Gary Kosinsky" <gk...@vcn.bc.ca> wrote
> It must be frustrating, Art. Why don't you engage
> Paul in a discussion? He seems to get annoyed by
> superficial approaches to the Sonnets as well.
Paul has me on his killfile list.
Art
Bob Grumman
> >> >> > who all had remarkable success in their endeavours.
How do you know they thought they'd had remarkable success in their
endeavors, Art? And why didn't you mention Oxford, hero of the tilt
and singled out by the KWEENE her own self as a terrific dancing man?
And, as Gary sensibly inquires, what does success have to do with
happiness?
--Bob G.
Paul Crowley
2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
This must be one of the 'worst' of the
sonnets. In the words of Steevens in
1780 it's full of "laboured perplexities of
language" and the "studied deformities
of style". Yet no one here has mentioned
that, nor do modern commentators.
Why is that? Maybe someone else has
an answer but, in the meantime, I can only
put it down to generalised Stratfordian
dopiness.
1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
The poem is full of hopeless, pointless
and largely meaningless alliteration, as
in this line. What is a 'session of sweet
silent thought'? Why should the poet
describe these thought-sessions as 'silent'?
Did he (or others) sometime have noisy
ones? And why call them 'sweet' -- when
he goes on to ennumerate the distressing
nature of their contents.
2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
Err . . is this supposed to be an elegant
way of saying he remembered things?
3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
'Sought' is presumably the past tense
of 'sigh'. Clearly (to anyone whose brain
has not been eaten up by Stratfordianism)
the poet is taking the piss. But of who or
what?
4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
This must be one of the worst lines in
the sonnets. A Elizabethan schoolboy
would be beaten for one as bad. Hmm . ..
Let's see what Helen Vendler says . . . .
"Altogether, 30 is not only one of the
richest sonnets in the sequence, but also
one of the most searching . . ."
Isn't it nice to have one's prejudices
confirmed?
5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
Another appalling line, leading in to
an appalling quatrain -- at least, taken
superficially.
6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
For a start, the sentiment is bathetic.
Then are friends supposed to be other
than precious? Do some think that death's
night has dates.
7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
Why would anyone weep a 'long since
canceld woe'?
8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
Why would anyone moan the _expense_
of many a vanished sight?
9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
Is anyone still taking this seriously?
Oops -- Strats are.
10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
And so it goes on . . . getting more
and more absurd.
11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
'Fore-bemoned mone' is almost up
to the Bob Grumman standard of
euphony. A sad account indeed.
12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
Only a Strat could regard this as
competent verse.
13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
If any proof were needed for the
manner in which Stratfordianism
destroys all poetic sensibility, the
general reaction to this sonnet
would be more than enough.
Paul.
David L. Webb
"Art Neuendorffer" <aneuendor...@comcast.net>
(aneuendor...@comicass.nut) wrote:
Fancy that! But don't take it too hard, Art -- surely being in Mr.
Crowley's killfile is a badge of honor of sorts: it's like being on
Richard NiXOn's "enemies list."
bookburn
"Paul Crowley" <slkwuoiut...@slkjlskjoioue.com> wrote in
message news:wyHqd.42853$Z14....@news.indigo.ie...
(snip)|
| This must be one of the 'worst' of the
| sonnets. In the words of Steevens in
| 1780 it's full of "laboured perplexities of
| language" and the "studied deformities
| of style". Yet no one here has mentioned
| that, nor do modern commentators.
| Why is that? Maybe someone else has
| an answer but, in the meantime, I can only
| put it down to generalised Stratfordian
| dopiness.
|Paul
Well, here is what Helen Vendler says, in part; from The Art of
Shakespeare's Sonnets, at:
http://www.hup.harvard.edu/features/venart/sonnet30_com.html
(quote)
. . . . .
It is in such simultaneous marshaling of temporal continuity, logical
discreteness, and psychological modeling that Shakespeare's Sonnets
surpass those of other sonneteers. His enormous power to order
intellectually recalcitrant material into lyrically convincing schemes
is
nowhere more visible than in this example.
(unquote)
bookburn
Paul Crowley
> Well, here is what Helen Vendler says, in part; from The Art of
> Shakespeare's Sonnets, at:
> http://www.hup.harvard.edu/features/venart/sonnet30_com.html
>
> (quote)
> . . . . .
>
> It is in such simultaneous marshaling of temporal continuity, logical
> discreteness, and psychological modeling that Shakespeare's Sonnets
> surpass those of other sonneteers. His enormous power to order
> intellectually recalcitrant material into lyrically convincing schemes
> is nowhere more visible than in this example.
> (unquote)
Yep, that's her final conclusion.
Also she claims to have learnt every
sonnet off by heart so that she could
fully master its rhythm and aesthetic
value (or whatever).
What a total bullshitter!
Is anyone here going to defend this
sonnet as GOOD poetry.
Paul.
Paul Crowley
> Well, here is what Helen Vendler says, in part; from The Art of
> Shakespeare's Sonnets, at:
> http://www.hup.harvard.edu/features/venart/sonnet30_com.html
>
> (quote)
> . . . . .
>
> It is in such simultaneous marshaling of temporal continuity, logical
> discreteness, and psychological modeling that Shakespeare's Sonnets
> surpass those of other sonneteers. His enormous power to order
> intellectually recalcitrant material into lyrically convincing schemes
> is nowhere more visible than in this example.
> (unquote)
On that site she gives her full analysis of
two sonnets (as samples for the rest) and
of only two: numbers 1 and 30.
She must be especially proud of the work
she did on Sonnet 30, and regard it as
about her best.
What is worse is that no one has ever
pointed out to her what a mess she has
made of it . . not after listening to her
lectures, nor after reading her book, nor
after seeing this piece on the Harvard
website.
As we can see from the rest of the
commentaries, there is a complete
blindness to the appalling nature of
the poetry here.
Why didn't someone tell all these
academics (and soi-disant 'poets') that
Shakespeare was capable of doing
parodies? Then they _might_ have
been capable of seeing one.
A better demonstration of the total
and utter worthlessness of Stratfordian
'scholarship' could not have been
devised.
Paul.
Paul Crowley
2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
The verse is appalling and the sentiments
worse. (So, naturally, all Stats and quasi-
Strats commend both to the skies-- but let's
try to ignore those deep pits of ignorance.)
The poet is almost certainly parodying the
voice and style of another poet. Who could
it be? Let's consider the more banal of the
sentiments and the more striking and common
of the words -- and see if they fit any other
poet.
The poet emphasises 'woe': "And heavily
from woe to woe tell ore". The word occurs
four times in the sonnet.
What other poet of the time liked the
word? Hmm . . . . How about this guy?
(You'll never guess who it is.)
--------- Quotes from A.N. Other-Poet -------
Woes without date, discomforts without end
She sleeps thy death, that erst thy danger sithed.
Strive then no more, bow down thy weary eyes -
Eyes which to all these woes thy heart have guided.
She is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair:
Sorrow draws weakly, where love draws not too.
Woe's cries sound nothing but only in love's ear:
Do then by dying what life cannot do.
Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune's might:
Thy rising day saw never woeful night,
My heart was he that all my woe had wrought,
For he my breast, the fort of love, resigned,
When of such wars my fancy never thought.
Like to a hermit poor in place obscure
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,
To wail such woes as time cannot recure,
Where none but Love shall ever find me out.
My mind to woe, my life in Fortune's hand,
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays.
As in a country strange without companion,
I only wail the wrong of death's delays,
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well nigh done,
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays;
As ships in port desired are drowned,
As fruit once ripe then falls to ground,
As flies that seek for flames are brought
To cinders by the flames they sought:
So fond desire, when it attains,
The life expires, the woe remains.
Sufficeth it to you, my joys interred,
In simple words that I my woes complain,
You that then died when first my fancy erred,
Joys under dust that never live again.
Slain with self-thoughts, amazed in fearful dreams
Woes without date, discomforts without end,
From fruitful trees I gather withered leaves,
And glean the broken ears with miser's hands,
The messengers sometimes of my great woe,
But all on earth as from the cold storms bending
Her regal looks my rigorous sithes suppressed,
Small drops of joys sweetened great worlds of woes,
No other power effecting woe or bliss,
She gave, she took, she wounded, she appeased
The weal, the woe, the passages of old,
And worlds of thoughts described by one last sithing;
So did the time draw on my more despair;
Then floods of sorrow and whole seas of woe
What altered sense conceive the weakest woe
That tore, that rent, that pierced thy sad heart?
So did my mind in change of passion
From woe to wrath, from wrath return to woe,
A sweetness which woe's wrongs outwipeth not,
That as her beauties would our woes should dune,
But leave her praise, speak thou of naught but woe,
Write on the tale that sorrow bids thee tell,
Such is of women's love the careful charge
Held and maintained with multitude of woes;
So doth the mind root up all wonted thought
And scorns the care of our remaining woe.
Were I resolved her promise was not just.
Sorrow was my revenge, and woe my hate;
And hides, if any be, his inward woes,
And will not know, while he knows his own passion,
Which never sickness, or deformity,
Which never wasting care, or wearing woe -
The salves that heal love's wounds and do amend
Consuming woe, and slake our hearty sithing,
Oh love - the more my woe - to it thou art
Even as the moisture in each plant that grows,
A fraud bought at the price of many woes,
A guile whereof the profits unto me:
But stay, my thoughts, make end; give fortune way;
Harsh is the voice of woe and sorrow's sound;
Strive then no more, bow down thy weary eyes
-Eyes which to all these woes thy heart have guided.
Woe's cries sound nothing but only in love's ear:
Do then by dying what life cannot do.
My pipe, which love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my woe upon,
But be it so, or not, th' effects are past.
Her love hath end: my woe must ever last.
Leaving us only woe, which, like the moss,
Having compassion of unburied bones,
But love's and woe's expense
Sorrow can only write.
But friendships, kindred, and love's memory
Dies sole, extinguished hearing or beholding
The voice of woe or face of misery;
But if both God and time shall make you know
That I your humblest vassal am oppressed,
Then cast your eyes on undeserved woe,
Paul Crowley
> | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
> | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
> | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
> | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
> | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
> | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
> | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
> |
> | The verse is appalling and the sentiments
> | worse. (So, naturally, all Stats and quasi-
> | Strats commend both to the skies-- but let's
> | try to ignore those deep pits of ignorance.)
> |
> | The poet is almost certainly parodying the
> | voice and style of another poet.
>
> They say it makes a great deal of difference how you put the question
> as to whether the situation is described in a way that can be answered
> meaningfully. Here, you advance that the poet is doing a parody, but
> I wonder how fruitful that description can be?
It's the best form of question -- a simple one
of fact. Either he was doing a parody or he
wasn't. All the standard commentators miss
the possibility entirely. Why? (That's not
a simple question of fact, and is damned
hard to answer -- although poetic blindness,
a near-total ignorance of the poet's character
and the complacent all-pervading Stratfordian
stupidity, must come near the top of the list.)
> After all, is parody, or mimicry, a sufficient motivation to write a
> Shakespeare sonnet?
Yes. More than enough. Petty motivations
are often at the root of great art -- such as
the need to outdo the neighbours in getting
a higher spire, bigger painting, or larger statue.
Not that this sonnet would make any claim to
be great art.
> or are other purposes necessarilly involved
No. Or not really. Since it reflects
human life, all manner of other purposes
will be involved, but there is nothing
'necessary' about any of them.
> beside
> mock heroics, burlesque, satire, lampoon, and/or caricature, perhaps
> at a level not appreciated? What about the possibility the poet does
> imitate, but:
> 1) not just one poet but a current tendency s/he thinks is trite and
> euphemistic
Personal animus is usually one of the
strongest of reasons. It is much easier
to sound off about current trends if
you have a particularly objectionable
example getting in your way.
> (your examples from Raleigh's poor poem don't seem to
> compare specifically except in terms of "woe");
Nonsense. If Shakespeare had written
'And heavily from moan to moan' or
'And heavily from wail to wail', we'd have
almost as good a pointer to Raleigh's
poetry.
> 2) does parody, but does it extremely well, as a real renaissance man
> naturally does with grace, outstripping the local yokels;
Parody of a weak artist can be done well
or badly, but can scarcely, in its own right,
be good art, let alone great art. The
weaknesses in the subject's thinking and
techniques must necessarily be exemplified
or exaggerated.
> 3) or goes beyond parody to make his own statement, showing
> virtuosity; and in so doing demonstrates mature realism of style;
There is not likely to be much room
for this.
> 4) he serenly transcends his composition of rhetorical and grammatical
> devices; accomplishing a superior sonnet with the ease and grace of
> one whose art conceals that art.
Nope. Sorry. Out of the question.
Forget it.
> If I was going to identify some aspect of sonnet 30 that might
> illuminate its value in our study of developments in the series, I
> would be interested in characterizing the poet's voice as representing
> a version of him at his best, not a persona or conventional
> speaker--just the opposite of comic parody, although he's using oft
> imitated conventions of the genre with great virtuosity.
Err . . . where?
> His
> perceived manner seems gentle and serene, like the swan that sails
> along effortlessly while paddling strongly under the surface.
Quote a bit you find good.
> So I think you should critique just how the poem is a failure,
> although very difficult to prove negatives.
It is very easy to demonstrate poetic
failure. The metre is awful, the rhyming
bad, the sentiments banal, the verbiage
redundant . . . and so on and on.
> I mean, is it unsound
> structurally, incoherent, trite, unpoetic, as silly as parody seems to
> be about?
Its faults are manifold and manifest.
It is laughably bad -- as it was meant
to be. It does not contain, in its body,
a defensible phrase, let alone a defensible
line.
Paul.
bookburn
| 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
| 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
| 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
| 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
| 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
| 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
| 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
| 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
| 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
| 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
| 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
| 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
| 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
| 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
|
| The verse is appalling and the sentiments
| worse. (So, naturally, all Stats and quasi-
| Strats commend both to the skies-- but let's
| try to ignore those deep pits of ignorance.)
|
| The poet is almost certainly parodying the
| voice and style of another poet.
They say it makes a great deal of difference how you put the question
as to whether the situation is described in a way that can be answered
meaningfully. Here, you advance that the poet is doing a parody, but
I wonder how fruitful that description can be?
After all, is parody, or mimicry, a sufficient motivation to write a
Shakespeare sonnet? or are other purposes necessarilly involved beside
mock heroics, burlesque, satire, lampoon, and/or caricature, perhaps
at a level not appreciated? What about the possibility the poet does
imitate, but:
1) not just one poet but a current tendency s/he thinks is trite and
euphemistic (your examples from Raleigh's poor poem don't seem to
compare specifically except in terms of "woe");
2) does parody, but does it extremely well, as a real renaissance man
naturally does with grace, outstripping the local yokels;
3) or goes beyond parody to make his own statement, showing
virtuosity; and in so doing demonstrates mature realism of style;
4) he serenly transcends his composition of rhetorical and grammatical
devices; accomplishing a superior sonnet with the ease and grace of
one whose art conceals that art.
If I was going to identify some aspect of sonnet 30 that might
illuminate its value in our study of developments in the series, I
would be interested in characterizing the poet's voice as representing
a version of him at his best, not a persona or conventional
speaker--just the opposite of comic parody, although he's using oft
imitated conventions of the genre with great virtuosity. His
perceived manner seems gentle and serene, like the swan that sails
along effortlessly while paddling strongly under the surface.
So I think you should critique just how the poem is a failure,
although very difficult to prove negatives. I mean, is it unsound
structurally, incoherent, trite, unpoetic, as silly as parody seems to
be about? bb (I'm writing this at 4 o'clock in the a.m., so I may be
a bit incoherent and silly, too.)
Buffalo
Bookburn does not invite you merely to repeat your belief that the poem is a
failure. You are invited to show, with examples, in what way the metre is
awful; then to show, with examples, how the rhyming is bad; then to show,
with examples, how the sentiments are banal; finally to show, with examples,
how the verbiage is redundant. And if "and so on and on" is to be taken as
anything more than the emissions of a farting fog-horn, you are invited to
supply examples for that too.
Reply to bookburn, not to me. I ain't interested.
Buffalo
Paul Crowley
> > > | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> > > | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
> > > | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> > > | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> > > | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
> > > | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> > > | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
> > > | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> > > | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
> > > | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
> > > | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> > > | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
> > > | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> > > | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
> > > So I think you should critique just how the poem is a failure,
> > > although very difficult to prove negatives.
> >
> > It is very easy to demonstrate poetic
> > failure. The metre is awful, the rhyming
> > bad, the sentiments banal, the verbiage
> > redundant . . . and so on and on.
>
> Bookburn does not invite you merely to repeat your belief that the poem is a
> failure. You are invited to show, with examples, in what way the metre is
> awful; then to show, with examples, how the rhyming is bad; then to show,
> with examples, how the sentiments are banal; finally to show, with examples,
> how the verbiage is redundant.
All those faults (and many more) are
perfectly obvious. I'm sure that there
are Stratfordian dolts who can't see
them. But there is no point in trying to
explain the obvious. If you can't (for
example) hear the awfulness of the metre
or see the excessive and pointless nature
of the alliteration, then nothing I can say
will help.
I'm waiting for a Strat to state openly
that the poetry in this sonnet is good;
or even that a line or two isn't so bad,
or to claim that it has specific virtues.
None have. No doubt many can't tell,
and most are uncertain. But there are
some around here who have good ears
and working eyes. Note their silence.
Note also your careful wording -- not
to commit yourself to any positive
statement.
I don't know how Strats (and quasi-
Strats) can live with themselves.
What is it like to not to be able to
say what you think? Or not to be
able to think? Better never to have
been born.
Paul.
Gary Kosinsky
didn't already know?
The speaker tells us that his sad memories are
dispelled when he thinks of the addressee.
***************************************************
The story so far:
So after thirty sonnets, what do we know?
The addressee or referent of the first thirty
sonnets is probably the same person (although it
has been speculated that perhaps the speaker of the first
seventeen poems is different). At any rate, we are assuming
that the same person is the addressee of these sonnets.
The speaker says the addressee is physically
attractive. The description of that beauty is in terms that
would seem more suitable to a woman than a man. (1 - 7, 9,
13, 17-19, especially 20)
The speaker says that the addressee is narcissistic.
(1 - 4, 6)
The speaker may be chiding the addressee's sexual
habits. (1 - 4, 6, 9)
The addressee is male. (3, 6, 9, 16, 19-20, 26)
The speaker is male. (20)
The addressee is of marriageable age, meaning (I
think) that he would be in the 17 - 26 age range. (1 - 4, 6,
8 - 13, 16, 17)
The speaker claims he has no interest in sexual
relations with the addressee. (20)
The speaker probably wasn't a member of the
nobility. (25) We still don't know which class the addressee
belong to. Some readers have suggested that certain words
and phrases used in the sonnets indicate that the addressee
is of noble birth.
The speaker's life involved travel that took him
away from the addressee. Possibly, the travel involved
service for the addressee. (27-28)
Note that we still don't know where the speaker or
the addressee live.
The speaker is preoccupied at night by images of the
addressee. (27-28)
The poet says he is in disgrace for some reason, and
that he is a self-described outcast of some sort, and that
he feels sorry for himself and envious of others, a feeling
that is dispelled when he thinks of his relationship with
the addressee. (29)
The speaker tells us that his sad memories are
dispelled when he thinks of the addressee. (30)
The speaker says the addressee has a pleasant
speaking voice and enjoys listening to sad music. (8)
The speaker says the addressee has a gracious and
kind presence. (10)
The speaker seems to think that the addressee has
some sort of love for the speaker. (10, 25)
The speaker seems to have some sort of affectionate
feelings for the addressee, calling him such things as
"love", "dear my love", "master-mistress of my passion" and
"Lord of my love". (13, 19, 20-30)
These feelings are so strong that they leave the
speaker tongue-tied about those feelings in the presence of
the addressee. (23)
The speaker expresses humility about his ability to
express, in writing, his feelings for the addressee. (26)
The speaker is an aesthetic snob. (11)
The speaker may believe in astrology. (15)
The speaker initially thinks that having children is
a better method than a painting or a poem for the addressee
to preserve himself. (16, 17) However, the speaker comes to
say that he can preserve the beauty of the addressee in his
poetry (18, 19).
The speaker, having posed a problem for the
addressee, is offering a solution to that problem - namely
that the addressee should have children - specifically, a
son. (1-14, 16, 17). (But let's remember that it's only the
speaker's assertion that beautiful people have some sort of
obligation to the world to propagate or preserve their
beauty.)
The speaker seems mainly concerned with the
addressee's beauty, and not overly much with the addressee
as a person. (Exceptions: 10, 14, 16, 22)
While seeming to chastise the addressee for his
narcissistic failure to preserve or propagate his beauty,
the speaker is, at the same time, acknowledging that beauty,
and so is flattering the addressee.
We still don't know what the relationship is between
the speaker and the addressee.
One word descriptions of the sonnets:
1) Introduction; 2) Siege; 3) Mirror; 4) Usury; 5) Perfume;
6) Money-lending; 7) Sun; 8) Music; 9) Widow; 10) Self-hate;
11) Snob; 12) Breed; 13) Endless; 14) Astrology; 15)
Transience; 16) Lines; 17) Memorial; 18) Summer; 19)
Permanence; 20) Pricked; 21) True; 22) Hearts; 23)
Tongue-tied; 24) Eyes; 25) Constancy; 26) Humility; 27)
Travel; 28) Exhausted; 29) Fulfillment; 30) Remembrance;
- Gary Kosinsky
Lawrence Bullock
I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, but I think the sonnet is
good. But then, I ain't an intellectual or whatever the hell a Strat is.....
Paul Crowley
> > > > > | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> > > > > | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
> > > > > | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> > > > > | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> > > > > | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
> > > > > | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> > > > > | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
> > > > > | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> > > > > | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
> > > > > | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
> > > > > | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> > > > > | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
> > > > > | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> > > > > | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
> > > > It is very easy to demonstrate poetic
> > > > failure. The metre is awful, the rhyming
> > > > bad, the sentiments banal, the verbiage
> > > > redundant . . . and so on and on.
> > All those faults (and many more) are
> > perfectly obvious. I'm sure that there
> > are Stratfordian dolts who can't see
> > them. But there is no point in trying to
> > explain the obvious. If you can't (for
> > example) hear the awfulness of the metre
> > or see the excessive and pointless nature
> > of the alliteration, then nothing I can say
> > will help.
> I have no idea what the fuck you're talking about, but I think the sonnet is
> good.
Which line do you think is best from 1-12?
> But then, I ain't an intellectual or whatever the hell a Strat is.....
IF you are capable of coming to a judgement
on a poem, you should be able to say why
you think it good.
> > I'm waiting for a Strat to state openly
> > that the poetry in this sonnet is good;
> > or even that a line or two isn't so bad,
> > or to claim that it has specific virtues.
> > None have.
There are plenty of regular contributors
to this NG who are proud of their ability
to assess poetry. Some claim to be poets
themselves. Since I pointed out it its true
nature (a deliberate parody of an extremely
weak poet), not one has come forward to
defend it.
That is interesting because, as far as
I know, I'm the first to state that. All the
standard commentaries, such as that
of Helen Vendler, for example, praise
the poem (insofar as they say anything
about it -- the commentators usually try
to avoid saying anything, one way or
the other). Not one refers to its
appalling quality,
So either (a) I am right, and all the
published Strat commentaries are not
worth the paper they are written on;
and the silent 'experts' in this NG agree
with me; OR
(b) I am wrong, but the 'experts' here
are afraid to take the risk of making
fools of themselves.
Paul.
LynnE
I *am* a poet myself. I don't "claim' to be one. I came forward and agreed
with you, believe I called it, without looking back, "a god-awful sonnet."
I've always felt it to be so, perhaps a piece of earlier work embellished by
a couple of the other sonnets in the sequence. You ignored my remarks
totally, perhaps because I didn't say I thought this a parody. I don't.
Parodies or travesties usually scream out what they are. This doesn't scream
out anything, except, perhaps, an earlier form of versifying. I realise you
can't accept this, as in your mind most of the sonnets were written when
Oxford was about thirteen and WS of Stratford was just a glint in his
father's eye.
I do actually like the line "When to the sessions of sweet silent
thought..." Even though alliterative, euphuistic, and to some extent
redundant--"silent thought"--it reads very well. The first two lines, in
fact, have a lovely sibilance that are in keeping with the mood of the
sonnet, sound like footsteps in snow.
By the way, I have absolutely no idea of what Vendler is talking about. But
I rarely understand her.
LynnE
Lawrence Bullock
But if the while I think on thee dear friend
All losses are restored and sorrows end
Those are the lines I think are good.
And even if you are right, so what? When you're dead I doubt anyone will
search this group to discover your great insights. Meanwhile Shakespeare
will continue to be read.
That said, continue to debate. It'll pass the time.
Spam Scone
Lawrence Bullock wrote:
> "Paul Crowley" <slkwuoiut...@slkjlskjoioue.com> wrote in
message
> news:Enksd.43222$Z14....@news.indigo.ie...
> search this group to discover your great insights.
bookburn
| > > > > > > | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
| > > > > > > | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
| > > > > > > | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
| > > > > > > | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
| > > > > > > | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
| > > > > > > | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
| > > > > > > | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
| > > > > > > | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
| > > > > > > | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
| > > > > > > | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
| > > > > > > | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
| > > > > > > | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
| > > > > > > | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare
friend)
| > > > > > > | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
(snip)
| But if the while I think on thee dear friend
| All losses are restored and sorrows end
|
| Those are the lines I think are good.
|
| And even if you are right, so what? When you're dead I doubt anyone
will
| search this group to discover your great insights. Meanwhile
Shakespeare
| will continue to be read.
|
| That said, continue to debate. It'll pass the time.
The fact is that some literature gets recreated by popular taste and
something mystical between authors. The lines about "time" and
"memory" in sonnet 30 resound some archetypes in literature, it seems.
We know that "remembrance of things past" is an echo from Solomon in
the OT, echoed again in Proust; and now there is another
interpretation of Proust that evidently invites further review, in the
following interview, parts snipped. bookburn
(quote)
From the February 2003 issue of World Press Review (VOL. 50, No. 2)
Books
My Madeleine Is Rich
Christophe Boltanski, Libération (left-wing), Paris, France, Nov. 21,
2002
Marcel Proust's À la recherche du temps perdu has just been translated
for the fourth time into the language of Shakespeare. This new edition
of In Search of Lost Time was a huge project that took five years and
the work of eight people. The project's general editor, Christopher
Prendergast, recalls how this multivoiced Proust came about.
Why this new translation, 10 years after the Kilmartin-Enright
version?
(snip)
Why did you decide to have a different translator for each of the six
volumes?
(snip)
Have there been errors in past translations of Proust?
(snip)
How do the English see Proust?
For a long time, he was the exclusive property of a small minority who
wore their knowledge of the novel as a sort of social and spiritual
badge, and who considered the book itself as a sort of warehouse of
exquisite epiphanies. Socially, the Proust phenomenon...was a bit like
the appropriation of Jane Austen by what we call here the "Janeites."
A form of snobbery or fashionable sophistication (one of Proust's
major themes!) that hid all the novel's ironic, scandalous, and
transgressive qualities. Today, though, a lot has changed. We've seen
a much more widespread, democratic dissemination of Proust.
English speakers know À la recherche du temps perdu as Remembrance of
Things Past. Why didn't you preserve this title?
Remembrance of Things Past was Scott Moncrieff's invention; he picked
out a quote from Shakespeare. Obviously, Scott Moncrieff wanted
something that echoed English literature. But Proust himself hated the
English title, and he was right...."Remembrance of Things Past" is
quite pretty, but has absolutely nothing to do with Proust's own
title. "Remembrance" loses all the ambiguity of the word "lost"-even
though "lost" doesn't capture the meaning of "wasted" that is
contained in the French word "perdu." "Remembrance of Things Past"
also loses the word "recherche," which we've translated as "In Search
of," but which is a word with multiple meanings, as it means both
"investigation" and "experiment."
If you have to choose between making Proust more accessible to English
readers and being as faithful as possible to the original, which way
do you go?
(snip)
(unquote)
Paul Crowley
news:iRksd.30300$Ad3.2...@news20.bellglobal.com...
> > > > > > > | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> > > > > > > | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
> > > > > > > | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> > > > > > > | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> > > > > > > | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
> > > > > > > | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> > > > > > > | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
> > > > > > > | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> > > > > > > | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
> > > > > > > | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
> > > > > > > | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> > > > > > > | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
> > > > > > > | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> > > > > > > | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
> I *am* a poet myself. I don't "claim' to be one.
I'm old-fashioned on this matter, and regard
that claim as inherently self-defeating -- a
kind of performative oxymoron (roughly
parallel to claiming that you are the most
modest person that has ever lived).
That there are tens of thousands of soi-
disant poets merely informs us of the
degeneracy of the age, and especially of
the language. First, you have to have
something to say. That rules out 99.99%,
> I came forward and agreed
> with you, believe I called it, without looking back, "a god-awful sonnet."
> I've always felt it to be so, perhaps a piece of earlier work
Shakespeare could never have written
anything so bad. When he was bad, it
was in quite different ways. He was not
capable of using so many words to say
so little -- in his own voice. Nor would
he have been able to write in such a
leaden metre. The clumsy, pointless,
and ridiculous alliteration is way over
the top.
> embellished by
> a couple of the other sonnets in the sequence. You ignored my remarks
> totally,
Your post did not reach my server. It also
missed Google's. Are you sure it actually
left your computer?
> perhaps because I didn't say I thought this a parody. I don't.
> Parodies or travesties usually scream out what they are. This doesn't scream
> out anything, except, perhaps, an earlier form of versifying. I realise you
> can't accept this,
Indeed. I can't see how you can fail
to hear (and see) the screaming out.
> as in your mind most of the sonnets were written when
> Oxford was about thirteen
Nonsense. SOME were written when he
was about that age. I reckon 153 and 154
were written when he was about seven.
I can see no other reason why they'd be
in this collection, other than the poet's
sentimental attachment to them.
The sonnets would generally have been
written when he was younger (rather
than older) and when his mind was too
troubled, or his life too disorganised for
him to be busy on more serious work
(such as the plays). So a lot got written
around the time of his disgrace in 1581.
They were also a way of communicating
sensitive matters to his master-mistress --
especially when pleading with her to get
married (to someone -- anyone). That
was a constant refrain, becoming more
intense in the late 70s.
> I do actually like the line "When to the sessions of sweet silent
> thought..." Even though alliterative, euphuistic, and to some extent
> redundant--"silent thought"--it reads very well.
Yes, but it is definitely silly and over-
pompous.
> The first two lines, in
> fact, have a lovely sibilance that are in keeping with the mood of the
> sonnet, sound like footsteps in snow.
The first line is not without merit -- in
that it is far better than anything Raleigh
would have produced the second line is
(deliberately) dreadful in its absurdly
over-blown way of saying 'I remember'.
> By the way, I have absolutely no idea of what Vendler is talking about. But
> I rarely understand her.
Nor does anyone else. But many pretend
to find something in her words. It's delight
to find categorical proof that she spouts
pure nonsense as regards this sonnet.
Paul.
Paul Crowley
> > > > > > > | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> > > > > > > | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
> > > > > > > | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> > > > > > > | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> > > > > > > | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
> > > > > > > | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> > > > > > > | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
> > > > > > > | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> > > > > > > | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
> > > > > > > | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
> > > > > > > | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> > > > > > > | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
> > > > > > > | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> > > > > > > | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
> > Which line do you think is best from 1-12?
> But if the while I think on thee dear friend
> All losses are restored and sorrows end
>
> Those are the lines I think are good.
Err . . I did ask for the best from 1-12,
We can assume that the final couplet is
likely to be in the true voice of the poet.
It is of a wholly different nature from
the body of the sonnet.
Paul.
LynnE
> "LynnE" <lynnek...@sympatico.ca> wrote in message
> news:iRksd.30300$Ad3.2...@news20.bellglobal.com...
>
> > > > > > > > | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> > > > > > > > | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
> > > > > > > > | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> > > > > > > > | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> > > > > > > > | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
> > > > > > > > | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> > > > > > > > | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
> > > > > > > > | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> > > > > > > > | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
> > > > > > > > | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
> > > > > > > > | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> > > > > > > > | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
> > > > > > > > | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> > > > > > > > | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
>
> > I *am* a poet myself. I don't "claim' to be one.
>
> I'm old-fashioned on this matter, and regard
> that claim as inherently self-defeating -- a
> kind of performative oxymoron (roughly
> parallel to claiming that you are the most
> modest person that has ever lived).
If one can never say so, how can one be a poet? I assume I must be one as I
have won several awards for my poetry, and have had well over a hundred and
fifty poems published in literary journals, mainstream magazines, and
anthologies. But I imagine that means, in your book, that others, i.e.
poetry editors, are as deluded as I am.
>
> That there are tens of thousands of soi-
> disant poets merely informs us of the
> degeneracy of the age, and especially of
> the language. First, you have to have
> something to say. That rules out 99.99%,
>
> > I came forward and agreed
> > with you, believe I called it, without looking back, "a god-awful
sonnet."
> > I've always felt it to be so, perhaps a piece of earlier work
>
> Shakespeare could never have written
> anything so bad. When he was bad, it
> was in quite different ways. He was not
> capable of using so many words to say
> so little -- in his own voice. Nor would
> he have been able to write in such a
> leaden metre. The clumsy, pointless,
> and ridiculous alliteration is way over
> the top.
>
> > embellished by
> > a couple of the other sonnets in the sequence. You ignored my remarks
> > totally,
>
> Your post did not reach my server. It also
> missed Google's. Are you sure it actually
> left your computer?
It's on my newsgroup list. I just checked. But I see you're right. It got
lost on the way to Google. Have no idea how.
Lynne
snip
Spam Scone
Paul Crowley wrote:
> We can assume that the final couplet is
> likely to be in the true voice of the poet.
Why?
Gary Kosinsky
<slkwuoiut...@slkjlskjoioue.com> wrote:
SNIP
>There are plenty of regular contributors
>to this NG who are proud of their ability
>to assess poetry. Some claim to be poets
>themselves. Since I pointed out it its true
>nature (a deliberate parody of an extremely
>weak poet), not one has come forward to
>defend it.
>
>That is interesting because, as far as
>I know, I'm the first to state that. All the
>standard commentaries, such as that
>of Helen Vendler, for example, praise
>the poem (insofar as they say anything
>about it -- the commentators usually try
>to avoid saying anything, one way or
>the other). Not one refers to its
>appalling quality,
>
>So either (a) I am right, and all the
>published Strat commentaries are not
>worth the paper they are written on;
>and the silent 'experts' in this NG agree
>with me; OR
>(b) I am wrong, but the 'experts' here
>are afraid to take the risk of making
>fools of themselves.
OR
(c) The 'experts' here, for the most part, don't read your
posts.
I do, but then I'm not an expert on poetry, and
don't pretend to know whether this poem, or any other, is
good or bad.
- Gary Kosinsky
David L. Webb
"Spam Scone" <tartak...@hotmail.com> wrote:
Because it's obvious. Why is it obvious? Because Mr. Crowley says
so. Have you ever known him to give any justification for his habitual
pontifications that was any more objective than that?
Tom Reedy
news:41b285dd...@news.individual.net...
You ought to at least be able to say whether you like it or not. I do,
because my criteria for good poetry includes the emotional effect on the
reader, which is not objectively measurable the way rhyme and meter are.
Crowley apparently believes perfect meter is necessary for good poems, a
judgment Shakespeare evidently does not share. Nor does Shakespeare sneer at
the "banal sentiments" held by most human beings at one time or another. He
was not the snob Crowley is. He was much too intelligent for that.
TR
>
>
>
> - Gary Kosinsky
Paul Crowley
news:1102205096.6...@z14g2000cwz.googlegroups.com...
(a) The poet often (or usually) changes his
tone in the final couplet.
(b) Here the body of the poem is in the
pretend voice of his rival. While amusing
for ten lines or so, it is also limiting and
liable to become tedious. A reversion to
his normal voice is to be expected at some
point, and a natural break comes with the
couplet
(c) In the couplet, the poet directly addresses
his beloved -- in striking contrast to his
seemingly endless self-pitying moaning in
the body of the sonnet.
(d) There is nothing peculiar or odd in the
couplet, which might lead us to think that it
is in the pretend-voice of his rival.
(e) The quality of the verse is much higher.
1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
Paul.
Paul Crowley
> > > > > > > > > | 1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
> > > > > > > > > | 2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
> > > > > > > > > | 3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
> > > > > > > > > | 4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
> > > > > > > > > | 5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
> > > > > > > > > | 6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
> > > > > > > > > | 7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
> > > > > > > > > | 8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
> > > > > > > > > | 9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
> > > > > > > > > | 10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
> > > > > > > > > | 11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
> > > > > > > > > | 12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
> > > > > > > > > | 13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
> > > > > > > > > | 14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
> >
> > > I *am* a poet myself. I don't "claim' to be one.
> >
> > I'm old-fashioned on this matter, and regard
> > that claim as inherently self-defeating -- a
> > kind of performative oxymoron (roughly
> > parallel to claiming that you are the most
> > modest person that has ever lived).
>
> If one can never say so, how can one be a poet?
You make my point. If someone was to
say : "I am a great artist", is that enough
to make them so? Or is it a requirement
of being a great artist, that you claim to
be one? While 'poet' is not as strong as
'great artist', the word does indicate to me
that a poet is much more than a competent
versifier -- that s/he has something to say,
and that s/he says expresses it well,
preferably in verse.
The author is in the worst position to
assess whether or not s/he has made these
achievements. And there are now so many
who claim to be poets who are conspicuous
failures, that the word has become degraded
almost beyond use.
> > Your post did not reach my server. It also
> > missed Google's. Are you sure it actually
> > left your computer?
>
> It's on my newsgroup list. I just checked. But I see you're right. It got
> lost on the way to Google. Have no idea how.
Why not re-post it?
Paul.
LynnE
> "LynnE" <lynnek...@sympatico.ca> wrote in message
> news:p%rsd.33610$Ad3.2...@news20.bellglobal.com...
> > >
> > > > I *am* a poet myself. I don't "claim' to be one.
> > >
> > > I'm old-fashioned on this matter, and regard
> > > that claim as inherently self-defeating -- a
> > > kind of performative oxymoron (roughly
> > > parallel to claiming that you are the most
> > > modest person that has ever lived).
> >
> > If one can never say so, how can one be a poet?
>
> You make my point. If someone was to
> say : "I am a great artist", is that enough
> to make them so? Or is it a requirement
> of being a great artist, that you claim to
> be one? While 'poet' is not as strong as
> 'great artist', the word does indicate to me
> that a poet is much more than a competent
> versifier -- that s/he has something to say,
> and that s/he says expresses it well,
> preferably in verse.
First, I didn't claim to be a great artist, I said I was a poet.
Second, I told you that others who are in a position to judge apparently
agree--but I don't expect you accept their opinion either, though that
becomes problematic as to who, apart from you, is qualified to decide;
however, I'm rather alarmed that you've decided I'm not a poet without
seeing a single one of my hundreds of poems.
Third, reviewers of my poetry and novels have constantly said I have
something to say and I say it well.
Fourth--In verse? Good God, what century are you living in?
>
> The author is in the worst position to
> assess whether or not s/he has made these
> achievements. And there are now so many
> who claim to be poets who are conspicuous
> failures, that the word has become degraded
> almost beyond use.
>
> > > Your post did not reach my server. It also
> > > missed Google's. Are you sure it actually
> > > left your computer?
> >
> > It's on my newsgroup list. I just checked. But I see you're right. It
got
> > lost on the way to Google. Have no idea how.
>
> Why not re-post it?
Here it is, just so you can have another swipe:
It is a pretty god-awful sonnet. But it reminds me of a young Oxford. All
that alliteration. :(
Shakespeare was having an off day.
Lynne, waiting for the explosion.
>
>
> Paul.
>
>
>
>
David L. Webb
"LynnE" <lynnek...@sympatico.ca> wrote:
You've just put your finger on the crux, Lynne -- NOBODY but Mr.
Crowley is qualified to decide. Haven't you figured that out yet?
Don't forget that absolutely everyone except Mr. Crowley is an idiot.
> however, I'm rather alarmed that you've decided I'm not a poet without
> seeing a single one of my hundreds of poems.
Don't be alarmed, Lynne -- actually to have *read* any of your poems
before passing final judgment would be starkly out of character for Mr.
Crowley, who finds such prudent expedients utterly unnecessary. Mr.
Crowley is an insular monoglot who knows no foreign tongues, but he is
nonetheless so smugly certain of the effortless superiority of the
English language and its literature that he sees no need to expose
himself to any other literatures before pontificating on the matter.
Why pollute his mind with second-rate languages, literatures, and
cultures? This is a man who has pronounced the existence of "decent
literature" in the Soviet Union or in Latin America an impossibility, a
pronouncement that virtually insures that he will never be exposed to
either.
But why not post one or two of your poems, Lynne? By such a
"stealth" strategy, you might induce Mr. Crowley to read one before he
can avert his eyes! :-)
> Third, reviewers of my poetry and novels have constantly said I have
> something to say and I say it well.
They are all brainless quasi-Strats. I'll bet that not even a
*single one* of the reviewers who praises your work has insight enough
to realize that Shakespeare's Sonnet 103 celebrates a crapping
competition with the Queen! I'll bet that not a *single one* of them
would have recognized the genuineness of the "Ray Mignot" sonnet.
Surely you do not expect Mr. Crowley's verdict to be in the least
influenced by such brain-dead nonentities, do you, Lynne?
> Fourth--In verse? Good God, what century are you living in?
If you don't write in verse, then you are not a poet. The Oracle has
spoken.
> > The author is in the worst position to
> > assess whether or not s/he has made these
> > achievements. And there are now so many
> > who claim to be poets who are conspicuous
> > failures, that the word has become degraded
> > almost beyond use.
Mr. Crowley seems blithely unaware of the existence of poetasters in
the past.
> > > > Your post did not reach my server. It also
> > > > missed Google's. Are you sure it actually
> > > > left your computer?
> > >
> > > It's on my newsgroup list. I just checked. But I see you're right. It
> got
> > > lost on the way to Google. Have no idea how.
> > Why not re-post it?
> Here it is, just so you can have another swipe:
>
> It is a pretty god-awful sonnet. But it reminds me of a young Oxford. All
> that alliteration. :(
Come on, Lynne -- it doesn't even hold a candle to alliterative
doggerel like
"Fain would I sing but fury makes me fret,
And rage hath sworn to seek revenge of wrong;
my mazed mind in malice is so set,
As death shall daunt my deadly dolours long;
Patience perforce is such a pinching pain,
...."
> Shakespeare was having an off day.
Not as much of an off day as Oxford had when he wrote the lines
quoted above.
> Lynne, waiting for the explosion.
Masochist! :-)
LynnE
"David L. Webb" <david....@dartmouth.edu> wrote in message
news:david.l.webb-B6AC...@merrimack.dartmouth.edu...
> In article <s8Zsd.7259$l%5.41...@news20.bellglobal.com>,
> "LynnE" <lynnek...@sympatico.ca> wrote:
>
> > "Paul Crowley" <slkwuoiut...@slkjlskjoioue.com> wrote in message
> > news:3_Vsd.43322$Z14....@news.indigo.ie...
> > > "LynnE" <lynnek...@sympatico.ca> wrote in message
> > > news:p%rsd.33610$Ad3.2...@news20.bellglobal.com...
> > First, I didn't claim to be a great artist, I said I was a poet.
> >
> > Second, I told you that others who are in a position to judge apparently
> > agree--but I don't expect you accept their opinion either, though that
> > becomes problematic as to who, apart from you, is qualified to decide;
>
> You've just put your finger on the crux, Lynne -- NOBODY but Mr.
> Crowley is qualified to decide. Haven't you figured that out yet?
I believe I figured that out a while ago, David. I'm not sure why the rest
of us bother to post.
> Don't forget that absolutely everyone except Mr. Crowley is an idiot.
>
> > however, I'm rather alarmed that you've decided I'm not a poet without
> > seeing a single one of my hundreds of poems.
>
> Don't be alarmed, Lynne -- actually to have *read* any of your poems
> before passing final judgment would be starkly out of character for Mr.
> Crowley, who finds such prudent expedients utterly unnecessary. Mr.
> Crowley is an insular monoglot who knows no foreign tongues, but he is
> nonetheless so smugly certain of the effortless superiority of the
> English language and its literature that he sees no need to expose
> himself to any other literatures before pontificating on the matter.
> Why pollute his mind with second-rate languages, literatures, and
> cultures? This is a man who has pronounced the existence of "decent
> literature" in the Soviet Union or in Latin America an impossibility, a
> pronouncement that virtually insures that he will never be exposed to
> either.
>
> But why not post one or two of your poems, Lynne? By such a
> "stealth" strategy, you might induce Mr. Crowley to read one before he
> can avert his eyes! :-)
They're on my other computer. ;)
>
> > Third, reviewers of my poetry and novels have constantly said I have
> > something to say and I say it well.
>
> They are all brainless quasi-Strats. I'll bet that not even a
> *single one* of the reviewers who praises your work has insight enough
> to realize that Shakespeare's Sonnet 103 celebrates a crapping
> competition with the Queen! I'll bet that not a *single one* of them
> would have recognized the genuineness of the "Ray Mignot" sonnet.
> Surely you do not expect Mr. Crowley's verdict to be in the least
> influenced by such brain-dead nonentities, do you, Lynne?
No, of course you're right.
He was even younger then. ;)
>
> > Shakespeare was having an off day.
>
> Not as much of an off day as Oxford had when he wrote the lines
> quoted above.
No, I agree. I would put Sonnet 30 midway between the poem you've quoted
above and the best sonnets. It's funny, but I would include 29, just one
sonnet earlier, on that "superior" list. Of course it's a matter of taste.
>
> > Lynne, waiting for the explosion.
>
> Masochist! :-)
Anyone who posts on hlas has to be a bit of a masochist, don't you think?
Regards,
Lynne
Paul Crowley
news:RUFsd.1947$yr1...@newsread3.news.pas.earthlink.net...
> You ought to at least be able to say whether you like it or not. I do,
> because my criteria for good poetry includes the emotional effect on the
> reader, which is not objectively measurable the way rhyme and meter are.
> Crowley apparently believes perfect meter is necessary for good poems, a
> judgment Shakespeare evidently does not share.
Shakespeare strongly disapproved of the
kind of dull, leaden, 'perfect' meter to which
lesser poets were firmly attached. THAT is
what he is parodying in this sonnet.
> Nor does Shakespeare sneer at the "banal sentiments"
> held by most human beings at one time or another.
Of course he does. You can find
hundreds of instances in the plays.
What do you think Puck does much
of the time in MSND? Or Ariel in
the Tempest?
> He was not the snob Crowley is. He was much
> too intelligent for that.
Read the plays sometime, Reedy. Shake-
speare was an extreme social snob --
which, given his status as the 17th Earl,
is not surprising. As regards being an
intellectual snob -- well , fools were almost
as common in his time as they are today.
Even if he didn't have to cope with the
industrial production of them by
academia, he still had to put up with a
lot. They annoyed him at least as much
as those around here annoy me.
Btw, here are examples of the leaden verse
that he was parodying -- from that poet.
I've highlighted his favourite word 'woe',
as that was the basis of this selection.
--------- Quotes from A.N. Other-Poet -------
WOES without date, discomforts without end
She sleeps thy death, that erst thy danger sithed.
Strive then no more, bow down thy weary eyes -
Eyes which to all these WOES thy heart have guided.
She is gone, she is lost, she is found, she is ever fair:
Sorrow draws weakly, where love draws not too.
WOE's cries sound nothing but only in love's ear:
Do then by dying what life cannot do.
Grief, sorrow, sickness, and base fortune's might:
Thy rising day saw never WOEful night,
My heart was he that all my WOE had wrought,
For he my breast, the fort of love, resigned,
When of such wars my fancy never thought.
Like to a hermit poor in place obscure
I mean to spend my days of endless doubt,
To wail such WOES as time cannot recure,
Where none but Love shall ever find me out.
My mind to WOE, my life in Fortune's hand,
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays.
As in a country strange without companion,
I only wail the wrong of death's delays,
Whose sweet spring spent, whose summer well nigh done,
Of all which past, the sorrow only stays;
As ships in port desired are drowned,
As fruit once ripe then falls to ground,
As flies that seek for flames are brought
To cinders by the flames they sought:
So fond desire, when it attains,
The life expires, the WOE remains.
Sufficeth it to you, my joys interred,
In simple words that I my WOES complain,
You that then died when first my fancy erred,
Joys under dust that never live again.
Slain with self-thoughts, amazed in fearful dreams
WOES without date, discomforts without end,
From fruitful trees I gather withered leaves,
And glean the broken ears with miser's hands,
The messengers sometimes of my great WOE,
But all on earth as from the cold storms bending
Her regal looks my rigorous sithes suppressed,
Small drops of joys sweetened great worlds of WOES,
No other power effecting WOE or bliss,
She gave, she took, she wounded, she appeased
The weal, the WOE, the passages of old,
And worlds of thoughts described by one last sithing;
So did the time draw on my more despair;
Then floods of sorrow and whole seas of WOE
What altered sense conceive the weakest WOE
That tore, that rent, that pierced thy sad heart?
So did my mind in change of passion
From WOE to wrath, from wrath return to WOE,
A sweetness which WOE's wrongs outwipeth not,
That as her beauties would our WOES should dune,
But leave her praise, speak thou of naught but WOE,
Write on the tale that sorrow bids thee tell,
Such is of women's love the careful charge
Held and maintained with multitude of WOES;
So doth the mind root up all wonted thought
And scorns the care of our remaining WOE.
Were I resolved her promise was not just.
Sorrow was my revenge, and WOE my hate;
And hides, if any be, his inward WOES,
And will not know, while he knows his own passion,
Which never sickness, or deformity,
Which never wasting care, or wearing WOE -
The salves that heal love's wounds and do amend
Consuming WOE, and slake our hearty sithing,
Oh love - the more my WOE - to it thou art
Even as the moisture in each plant that grows,
A fraud bought at the price of many WOES,
A guile whereof the profits unto me:
But stay, my thoughts, make end; give fortune way;
Harsh is the voice of WOE and sorrow's sound;
Strive then no more, bow down thy weary eyes
-Eyes which to all these WOES thy heart have guided.
WOE's cries sound nothing but only in love's ear:
Do then by dying what life cannot do.
My pipe, which love's own hand gave my desire
To sing her praises and my WOE upon,
But be it so, or not, th' effects are past.
Her love hath end: my WOE must ever last.
Leaving us only WOE, which, like the moss,
Having compassion of unburied bones,
But love's and WOE's expense
Sorrow can only write.
But friendships, kindred, and love's memory
Dies sole, extinguished hearing or beholding
The voice of WOE or face of misery;
But if both God and time shall make you know
That I your humblest vassal am oppressed,
Then cast your eyes on undeserved WOE,
Peter Groves
> "Tom Reedy" <reed...@earthlink.net> wrote in message
> news:RUFsd.1947$yr1...@newsread3.news.pas.earthlink.net...
>
> > You ought to at least be able to say whether you like it or not. I do,
> > because my criteria for good poetry includes the emotional effect on the
> > reader, which is not objectively measurable the way rhyme and meter are.
> > Crowley apparently believes perfect meter is necessary for good poems, a
> > judgment Shakespeare evidently does not share.
>
> Shakespeare strongly disapproved of the
> kind of dull, leaden, 'perfect' meter to which
> lesser poets were firmly attached. THAT is
> what he is parodying in this sonnet.
If so, it was rather inept of him to begin the poem with two such metrically
complex lines, don't you think?
Peter G.
Paul Crowley
news:g75td.61917$K7....@news-server.bigpond.net.au...
> > Shakespeare strongly disapproved of the
> > kind of dull, leaden, 'perfect' meter to which
> > lesser poets were firmly attached. THAT is
> > what he is parodying in this sonnet.
>
> If so, it was rather inept of him to begin the poem with two such metrically
> complex lines, don't you think?
It would have been too much (even
for someone like Reedy) to make all
the lines 'perfect'. Those 'perfect' lines
needed framing.
However, don't you agree that the,
body of this sonnet is appalling, and
that it could only be a parody of
Raleigh? -- Especially with all the
'woe's?
Paul.
Peter Groves
I agree it's not one of his best, but it's by no means bad enough to
constitute parody. The "fore-bemoaned woe" stuff is indeed regrettable, but
it represents a very Shakespearean vice of style, and is no worse (perhaps
better) than "For as you were when first your eye I ey'd," (Son. 104.3) --
presumably you don't take 104 for a parody.
As for Raleigh, he's capable of some fine poetry, which is more than one can
say (on the evidence of his published work) about Edward de Vere.
Peter G.
Paul Crowley
> > However, don't you agree that the,
> > body of this sonnet is appalling, and
> > that it could only be a parody of
> > Raleigh? -- Especially with all the
> > 'woe's?
>
> I agree it's not one of his best, but it's by no means bad enough to
> constitute parody.
It is far from being 'his best'. Numerous
phrases can only be described as laughable.
1. When to the Sessions of sweet silent thought,
What's 'sweet silent thought'? Something
opposed to 'sour noisy thought'? And
what is a 'session of thought'?
2. I sommon up remembrance of things past,
The image is ridiculous. And is
'remembrance of things past' opposed
to 'remembrance of things future'?
Shakespeare simply does not commit
such monstrosities. This is Grummania
-- the realm of the appalling poet. And
so it goes on, phrase after phrase, line
after line.
3. I sigh the lacke of many a thing I sought,
This line is indefensible in the English
language -- as verse or as prose.
4. And with old woes new waile my deare times waste:
Ditto. How bad does it have to get before
you can see a parody?
5. Then can I drowne an eye (un-us'd to flow)
6. For precious friends hid in deaths dateles night,
Is anyone going to attempt to defend
these lines? The Strat commentators
accept them as vaguely passable -- or
at least they don't criticise them -- only
because they wear heavy-duty
Stratfordian blinders.
7. And weepe a fresh loves long since canceld woe,
8. And mone th'expence of many a vannisht sight.
Once you drop the standard assumption
that the poet is being serious, surely you
cannot fail to see the amount of nonsense
he generates.
9. Then can I greeve at greevances fore-gon,
10. And heavily from woe to woe tell ore
11. The sad account of fore-bemoned mone,
12. Which I new pay as if not payd before.
Each line in the last quatrain is the
epitome of clumsiness.
13. But if the while I thinke on thee (deare friend)
14. All losses are restord, and sorrowes end.
Winton describes Raleigh's poetry:
" . . . the prevailing tone of virtually everything Ralegh wrote is of
disappointment and defeat. His favourite line of his own poetry
seems to have been 'Of all which past, the sorrow only stays'; and
his favourite image, of life as a play acted out on a stage, is usually
tragic, and if comic, only sardonically so. . ."
> The "fore-bemoaned woe" stuff is indeed regrettable, but
> it represents a very Shakespearean vice of style,
Nonsense. It's a parodic description
of Raleigh's unrelenting style.
> and is no worse (perhaps
> better) than "For as you were when first your eye I ey'd," (Son. 104.3) --
> presumably you don't take 104 for a parody.
Sonnet 104 is about Raleigh (and maybe
about other "a prill perfumes") so it may
well have a element of parody. In any case,
the 'eye I ey'd" is a single multi-layered pun
(on "'Ay' I ay'ed" and "I-I-I'ed"), and not
comparable with the multiple examples of
repeated woes upon woes, moans upon
moans, and wails upon wails, that form the
subject of this sonnet.
> As for Raleigh, he's capable of some fine poetry,
One problem being that we have no
firm grasp of what he wrote. His name
being attached to a poem is not a
reliable indication.
> which is more than one can
> say (on the evidence of his published work) about Edward de Vere.
Yep . . . quick -- change the subject --
don't panic -- just change the subject.
IF this sonnet is a parody of Raleigh
(a virtually undeniable proposition)
how could (and why should) the
Stratman have written it?
Paul.
Paul Crowley
Once again your post did not reach my
server. So I am forced to cope with this
Webbed garbage.
> > > First, I didn't claim to be a great artist, I said I was a poet.
I did not suggest, nor even hint that
you claimed to be a great artist. One
of the first requirements of a poet is
the ability to appreciate language and
extract the meaning from other's words.
Or that used to be a requirement when
the word meant anything.
> > > Second, I told you that others who are in a position to judge apparently
> > > agree--but I don't expect you accept their opinion either, though that
> > > becomes problematic as to who, apart from you, is qualified to decide;
Modern 'poetry' has all the value
of modern music or art. No.
I take that back. It has far less,
> > > Third, reviewers of my poetry and novels have constantly said I have
> > > something to say and I say it well.
How come you have never said anything
of the least value here? -- Apart from that
one instance of finding that 'die' pun in
Sonnet 3. How come that you have no
opinions of your own on anything?
> > > Fourth--In verse? Good God, what century are you living in?
I told you I was old-fashioned in this
respect. I get more so nearly every time
I see modern 'poetry' or modern 'art'.
> > Mr. Crowley seems blithely unaware of the existence of poetasters in
> > the past.
Hey, a bit from the little turd has caught my
eye. (I'm in danger of slipping into it deep.)
Have you ever thought to claiming to be
a poetaster?
> > > > Why not re-post it?
> >
> > > Here it is, just so you can have another swipe:
It was so trivial, that I cannot see how
you felt entitled to complain that I had
not responded to it.
> > > It is a pretty god-awful sonnet. But it reminds me of a
> > > young Oxford. All that alliteration. :(
You have an entirely false concept of
"the young Oxford" -- which (if you were
capable of thought) you could clear up in
a minute or so.
At what point do you think the 'young
Oxford' came to realise that 'all that
alliteration' was a bad idea? Do you think
that he had a significant role in "Golding's"
translations of Ovid? Have you noticed
the extent of the alliteration in that?
Do you think that such a great poet
would be born with a good ear? If so,
how come he could ignore it? If not,
when do you think he came to acquire it?
> > "Fain would I sing but fury makes me fret,
> > And rage hath sworn to seek revenge of wrong;
> > my mazed mind in malice is so set,
> > As death shall daunt my deadly dolours long;
> > Patience perforce is such a pinching pain,
> > ...."
>
> He was even younger then. ;)
IF Oxford wrote this tripe, then he
did so when he was under ten, and
probably under seven. It could only
have been published to mislead.
> > > Shakespeare was having an off day.
Read the sonnet again. And try to answer
the question as to why he decided -- in his
mature years -- to include such a 'bad poem'
in his collection, numbering it '30'. Do you
think he was short of good poems to include?
Or that he had to scrape the bottom of the
barrel to make the numbers up to 154?
> Of course it's a matter of taste.
Sure. There's nothing objective here.
This is poetry. It's like having a
favourite colour. Let it all hang out.
Paul.
LynnE
> "LynnE" <lynnek...@sympatico.ca> wrote in message
> news:2O1td.8108$l%5.52...@news20.bellglobal.com...
>
> Once again your post did not reach my
> server. So I am forced to cope with this
> Webbed garbage.
>
> > > > First, I didn't claim to be a great artist, I said I was a poet.
>
> I did not suggest, nor even hint that
> you claimed to be a great artist. One
> of the first requirements of a poet is
> the ability to appreciate language and
> extract the meaning from other's words.
The only requirement of a poet is that s/he write well. The ability to
appreciate language certainly helps.
> Or that used to be a requirement when
> the word meant anything.
>
> > > > Second, I told you that others who are in a position to judge
apparently
> > > > agree--but I don't expect you accept their opinion either, though
that
> > > > becomes problematic as to who, apart from you, is qualified to
decide;
>
> Modern 'poetry' has all the value
> of modern music or art. No.
> I take that back. It has far less,
I see. I was right. No one, except you, is qualified to decide.
>
> > > > Third, reviewers of my poetry and novels have constantly said I have
> > > > something to say and I say it well.
>
> How come you have never said anything
> of the least value here?
I save it for my books.
> -- Apart from that
> one instance of finding that 'die' pun in
> Sonnet 3.
I'm rather proud of that. As far as I know, no one else in 400 years
recognised it. And having said ONE thing of value here is more than a few
others could claim. This is not a pointed remark, of course.
>How come that you have no
> opinions of your own on anything?
I'm afraid many wouldn't agree with you there. But you really do have no
opinions, Paul. You apparently only state facts.
>
> > > > Fourth--In verse? Good God, what century are you living in?
>
snip
>
> Have you ever thought to claiming to be
> a poetaster?
No, I've never thought to claiming to be a poetaster. (!!)
>
> > > > > Why not re-post it?
> > >
> > > > Here it is, just so you can have another swipe:
>
> It was so trivial, that I cannot see how
> you felt entitled to complain that I had
> not responded to it.
>
> > > > It is a pretty god-awful sonnet. But it reminds me of a
> > > > young Oxford. All that alliteration. :(
>
> You have an entirely false concept of
> "the young Oxford" -- which (if you were
> capable of thought) you could clear up in
> a minute or so.
It's a pity that I'm not, then.
>
> At what point do you think the 'young
> Oxford' came to realise that 'all that
> alliteration' was a bad idea? Do you think
> that he had a significant role in "Golding's"
> translations of Ovid? Have you noticed
> the extent of the alliteration in that?
I have no idea whether he had a significant role in the translation. And
yes, I have read it.
>
> Do you think that such a great poet
> would be born with a good ear? If so,
> how come he could ignore it?
Have you read Jane Austen's Juvenilia? Or heard Mendelssohns' first
symphony? Or at least, the first he was content to call a numbered symphony?
Great artists do not emerge fully grown from the sea. They need care and
constant watering. By the way, even a very young Oxford had a pretty good
ear for rhythm and meter.
>If not,
> when do you think he came to acquire it?
A good ear is not the same thing as being a good writer. I imagine he came
to acquire his ability to write well over the period of his apprenticeship.
The poems that are full of alliteration, in any case, were acceptable at the
time he wrote them.
>
> > > "Fain would I sing but fury makes me fret,
> > > And rage hath sworn to seek revenge of wrong;
> > > my mazed mind in malice is so set,
> > > As death shall daunt my deadly dolours long;
> > > Patience perforce is such a pinching pain,
> > > ...."
> >
> > He was even younger then. ;)
>
> IF Oxford wrote this tripe, then he
> did so when he was under ten, and
> probably under seven. It could only
> have been published to mislead.
He did write that tripe, apparently, but my guess is that it was before or
around 1567. There are reasons for this which I'll be glad to go into at
another time. But not now as I'm too busy.
>
> > > > Shakespeare was having an off day.
>
> Read the sonnet again. And try to answer
> the question as to why he decided -- in his
> mature years -- to include such a 'bad poem'
> in his collection, numbering it '30'.
Why do you assume he wrote it in his mature years? And why do you assume he
numbered the sonnets himself?--oops, sorry, coming perilously close to
expressing an opinion.
>Do you
> think he was short of good poems to include?
Do you assume he made all the decisions himself regarding which poems to
include? If so, how do you know?
> Or that he had to scrape the bottom of the
> barrel to make the numbers up to 154?
Was there a reason that the sonnets had to add up to 154? I'm asking because
I genuinely don't know although I would 154 is a "magic" number which I
talked of in my latest novel. I would also say that someone was certainly
scraping the bottom of the barrel by including 153, 154, and a couple of
others.
>
> > Of course it's a matter of taste.
>
> Sure. There's nothing objective here.
> This is poetry. It's like having a
> favourite colour. Let it all hang out.
No, poetry is not like having a favourite colour, particularly not poetry of
the Tudor era. There are some objective criteria we can use to judge it;
however, once having included those criteria in our exploration of a poem,
whether we like that poem or not does appear to come down to a matter of
taste. Oops, sorry, another opinion.
L.
>
>
> Paul.
>
>
>
>
Paul Crowley
> > Modern 'poetry' has all the value
> > of modern music or art. No.
> > I take that back. It has far less,
>
> I see. I was right. No one, except you, is qualified to decide.
Nope. Such views are common -- and
held by nearly all thinking people.
> > -- Apart from that
> > one instance of finding that 'die' pun in
> > Sonnet 3.
>
> I'm rather proud of that. As far as I know, no one else in 400 years
> recognised it. And having said ONE thing of value here is more than a few
> others could claim. This is not a pointed remark, of course.
You deserve full credit for spotting that pun.
> > At what point do you think the 'young
> > Oxford' came to realise that 'all that
> > alliteration' was a bad idea? Do you think
> > that he had a significant role in "Golding's"
> > translations of Ovid? Have you noticed
> > the extent of the alliteration in that?
>
> I have no idea whether he had a significant role in the translation.
Nearly all Oxfordians AFAIK attribute the
bulk of the versifying to him (with Golding
taking on the more difficult parts of the
translation). The use of alliteration in it
is not excessive.
> > Do you think that such a great poet
> > would be born with a good ear? If so,
> > how come he could ignore it?
>
> Have you read Jane Austen's Juvenilia? Or heard Mendelssohns' first
> symphony? Or at least, the first he was content to call a numbered symphony?
> Great artists do not emerge fully grown from the sea. They need care and
> constant watering. By the way, even a very young Oxford had a pretty good
> ear for rhythm and meter.
Over-excessive alliteration would have
offended his ear.
> >If not,
> > when do you think he came to acquire it?
>
> A good ear is not the same thing as being a good writer.
A poet needs a good ear if he is ever
going to be competent. Those verses
attributed to him are so bad that I am
beginning to doubt if they were ever
Oxford's.
> I imagine he came
> to acquire his ability to write well over the period of his apprenticeship.
> The poems that are full of alliteration, in any case, were acceptable at the
> time he wrote them.
Not true. While tastes can vary,
they can't vary that much. Over-
excessive alliteration is a manifest
fault.
> > > > "Fain would I sing but fury makes me fret,
> > > > And rage hath sworn to seek revenge of wrong;
> > > > my mazed mind in malice is so set,
> > > > As death shall daunt my deadly dolours long;
> > > > Patience perforce is such a pinching pain,
> > > > > Shakespeare was having an off day.
> >
> > Read the sonnet again. And try to answer
> > the question as to why he decided -- in his
> > mature years -- to include such a 'bad poem'
> > in his collection, numbering it '30'.
>
> Why do you assume he wrote it in his mature years?
Read what I wrote. He _included_
it in a collection, made or approved
when he was mature.
> And why do you assume he
> numbered the sonnets himself?
Because some sonnets refer to,
or are based on, their numbers.
> >Do you
> > think he was short of good poems to include?
>
> Do you assume he made all the decisions himself regarding which poems to
> include? If so, how do you know?
It's pretty obvious that the collection
was authorial . Some of it was, so it is
likely that the whole of it is.
> > Or that he had to scrape the bottom of the
> > barrel to make the numbers up to 154?
>
> Was there a reason that the sonnets had to add up to 154? I'm asking because
> I genuinely don't know although I would 154 is a "magic" number which I
> talked of in my latest novel. I would also say that someone was certainly
> scraping the bottom of the barrel by including 153, 154, and a couple of
> others.
Shakespeare did not need to 'scrape any
barrel'. If he put in weak ones (like 153/4)
he would have done so for a reason --
and my guess that those two were his
very first efforts, included for sentimental
reasons.
Paul.