I learned how to read his Sonnets during my Intro. to Lit. class two summers ago. To me, they are clearly his personal journal, detailing loves, fears, and dreams…all of which most of us would rather keep locked away in obscurity. But dear Shakespeare (whoever he was) applied the ink and set it forth, blazing through our hearts forever.
Here are a couple great sites that list each sonnet along with either modernized diction or analysis. These might be helpful to people who’ve tried to read and understand the verses but have hit a brick wall:
The following audio actually has nothing to do with the Sonnets or Shakespeare, but it has to do with me. As I studied Hamlet and the Sonnets two years ago, Tears and Rain by James Blunt played on my iTunes. In a flash, the song became a sort of Shakespeare theme song. I even re-named it to better fit the Shakespeare fever I was consumed with. I hope you will listen to the song and imagine a tormented, loving, fearful artist who has much more to offer the world than Romeo and Juliet.
I’ve featured Gwendolyn Brooks on my blog before—remember the poem We Real Cool? If not, absolutely visit this post and listen to her audio file. Here is another poem that demonstrates her emotional intelligence.
To be in love
Is to touch with a lighter hand.
In yourself you stretch, you are well.
You look at things
Through his eyes.
A cardinal is red.
A sky is blue.
Suddenly you know he knows too.
He is not there but
You know you are tasting together
The winter, or a light spring weather.
His hand to take your hand is overmuch.
Too much to bear.
You cannot look in his eyes
Because your pulse must not say
What must not be said.
When he
Shuts a door—
Is not there_
Your arms are water.
And you are free
With a ghastly freedom.
You are the beautiful half
Of a golden hurt.
You remember and covet his mouth
To touch, to whisper on.
Oh when to declare
Is certain Death!
Oh when to apprize
Is to mesmerize,
To see fall down, the Column of Gold,
Into the commonest ash.
Read about the effects of “the fever called ‘Living’”— its throbbing heart, burning brain, pitiless pain…oh, the grief.
Most of us remember the day we read The Cask of Amontillado or The Bells in high school English, their effect on our psyche reverberating throughout Math and PE. But do you remember For Annie? Read it and I think you may further understand Poe’s tormented view of life.
For biographical information on Poe, I suggest this extensive article by another wordpress blogger.
Thank Heaven! the crisis-
The danger is past,
And the lingering illness
Is over at last-
And the fever called “Living”
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know
I am shorn of my strength,
And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length-
But no matter!-I feel
I am better at length.
And I rest so composedly,
Now, in my bed
That any beholder
Might fancy me dead-
Might start at beholding me,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing,
Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing
At heart:–ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing!
The sickness–the nausea-
The pitiless pain-
Have ceased, with the fever
That maddened my brain-
With the fever called “Living”
That burned in my brain.
And oh! of all tortures
That torture the worst
Has abated–the terrible
Torture of thirst
For the naphthaline river
Of Passion accurst:-
I have drunk of a water
That quenches all thirst:-
Of a water that flows,
With a lullaby sound,
From a spring but a very few
Feet under ground-
From a cavern not very far
Down under ground.
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed-
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting its roses-
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses:
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies-
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies-
With rue and the beautiful
Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie-
Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed,
And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast-
Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
And she prayed to the angels
To keep me from harm-
To the queen of the angels
To shield me from harm.
And I lie so composedly,
Now, in my bed,
(Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead-
And I rest so contentedly,
Now, in my bed,
(With her love at my breast)
That you fancy me dead-
That you shudder to look at me,
Thinking me dead.
But my heart it is brighter
Than all of the many
Stars in the sky,
For it sparkles with Annie-
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie-
With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
I do not care to talk to you although
Your speech evokes a thousand sympathies,
And all my being’s silent harmonies
Wake trembling into music. When you go
It is as if some sudden, dreadful blow
Had severed all the strings with savage ease.
No, do not talk; but let us rather seize
This intimate gift of silence which we know.
Others may guess your thoughts from what you say,
As storms are guessed from clouds where darkness broods.
To me the very essence of the day
Reveals its inner purpose and its moods;
As poplars feel the rain and then straightway
Reverse their leaves and shimmer through the woods.
Many people know this poem from the movie Anne of Green Gables, which is not a bad thing, necessarily. The only sadness in that is not hearing the entire poem recited. I’ve found an audio recording in the public domain, and am excited to share it with you today.
The wind was a torrent of darkness upon the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight looping the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding–
Riding–riding–
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn door.
He’d a French cocked hat on his forehead, and a bunch of lace at his chin;
He’d a coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of fine doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle; his boots were up to his thigh!
And he rode with a jeweled twinkle–
His rapier hilt a-twinkle–
His pistol butts a-twinkle, under the jeweled sky.
Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard,
He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred,
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter–
Bess, the landlord’s daughter–
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable-wicket creaked
Where Tim, the ostler listened–his face was white and peaked–
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
But he loved the landlord’s daughter–
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter;
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say:
“One kiss, my bonny sweetheart; I’m after a prize tonight,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light.
Yet if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He stood upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair in the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the sweet black waves of perfume came tumbling o’er his breast,
Then he kissed its waves in the moonlight
(O sweet black waves in the moonlight!),
And he tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon.
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise of the moon,
When the road was a gypsy’s ribbon over the purple moor,
The redcoat troops came marching–
Marching–marching–
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord; they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets by their side;
There was Death at every window,
And Hell at one dark window,
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.
They had bound her up at attention, with many a sniggering jest!
They had tied a rifle beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say,
“Look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by moonlight, though Hell should bar the way.”
She twisted her hands behind her, but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
The tip of one finger touched it, she strove no more for the rest;
Up, she stood up at attention, with the barrel beneath her breast.
She would not risk their hearing, she would not strive again,
For the road lay bare in the moonlight,
Blank and bare in the moonlight,
And the blood in her veins, in the moonlight, throbbed to her love’s refrain.
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hooves, ringing clear;
Tlot tlot, tlot tlot, in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding–
Riding–riding–
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up straight and still.
Tlot tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment, she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight–
Her musket shattered the moonlight–
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him–with her death.
He turned, he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the casement, drenched in her own red blood!
Not till the dawn did he hear it, and his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine-red was his velvet coat
When they shot him down in the highway,
Down like a dog in the highway,
And he lay in his blood in the highway, with the bunch of lace at his throat.
And still on a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a gypsy’s ribbon looping the purple moor,
The highwayman comes riding–
Riding–riding–
The highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.
Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard,
He taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred,
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter–
Bess, the landlord’s daughter–
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
Michael Hague is a renowned children’s book illustrator who just happens to live in Colorado. You may recognize his name or art from books such as The Velveteen Rabbit, The Children’s Book of Virtues, or The Teddy Bear’s Picnic. He is an obvious believer in the value of dreams, not taking oneself too seriously, and the importance of poetry. I had the pleasure of meeting him last year at an Imagination Celebration event (he designs and illustrates their posters yearly). I purchased The Book of Fairy Poetry and was pleased to get his autograph. What really amazed me, though, was how much time he took to delicately draw my own personal fairy inside the cover. How lucky am I?
So, today’s post is in an artist’s honor—fairy poetry to lighten your reality load for the day. Enjoy!
THE SECOND-HAND SHOP
Rowena Bennett
Down in the grasses
Where the grasshoppers hop
And the katydids quarrel
And the flutter-moths flop—
Down in the grasses
Where the beetles go “plop,”
An old withered fairy
Keeps a second-hand shop.
She sells lost thimbles
For fairy milk pails
And burnt-out matches
For fence posts and rails.
She sells stray marbles
To bowl on the green,
And bright scattered beads
For the crown of the queen.
Oh, don’t feel badly
Over things that you lose
Like spin tops and whistles
Or doll’s buckled shoes;
They may be the things that
Fairy folks can use,
For down in the grasses
Where the grasshoppers hop
A withered old fairy
Keeps a second-hand shop.
I’ve been searching for poets whose work reflects the Autistic mind. Of course, I have Brian, but I wanted to find other perspectives as well. Yesterday, I finally discovered a site dedicated to revealing the Autistic mind. It is a Johns Hopkins site called Autism Netverse, and they feature both writing and visual art from people on the Autism spectrum.
Our mission at Autism Netverse is to provide and opportunity for individuals with autism to be heard.
We strive to increase the awareness of autism worldwide, inspire more individuals with autism to express themselves, and celebrate the literary and artistic work of individuals with autism.
I’ve had the privilege to correspond with Cindy Earnshaw, whose poem THE STUPID “Aspergers” resonated for me. She graciously gave me permission to reprint this poem for all of you. When I asked about a bio, she said, “I’m just Cindy.” Read the poem, and I’m sure you’ll agree she is much more than that. I have a suspicion that people with Asperger Syndrome tend to simplify their complexities for the rest of us, since there can often be a communication gap. Let’s reach out and get to know more of their perspective—for it is a beautiful, feeling one…I know that first hand!
when they first
notice me in the world
or perhaps
second
I have already been
too smart
all hope for me
destroyed
there’s
no point of possibility
with them
the truth will
forever sound of lying
from my
too-smart
lips
they will steer towards where
I have somehow always
been
and I
will search
and search again to know
their algebraic paths
my massive mind
monstrously mocking brilliant me
they’ll
mock me too
standing there ahead
of them
and groping back behind
all the while
disbelieved
there in
the stupid.
Walt Whitman is such an interesting character. He worked for a printer at an early age and, thus, became engrossed with the written word. He taught himself most of what he knew, some of which was accomplished through extensive reading (Homer, Shakespeare, the Bible, etc.). As an adult, Whitman was a generous but modest man, using most of his “extra” money to buy supplies for patients.
No matter what you think of Whitman, his values, or his writing, the fact that they have an audio recording of him reading America should make you excited. Read the poem here, then follow this link to poets.org and listen to his own voice. Intriguing!
Centre of equal daughters, equal sons,
All, all alike endear’d, grown, ungrown, young or old,
Strong, ample, fair, enduring, capable, rich,
Perennial with the Earth, with Freedom, Law and Love,
A grand, sane, towering, seated Mother,
Chair’d in the adamant of Time.
they had it wrong,
the old comics.
you are only clark kent,
after all. oh,
mild mannered minister,
why did i think you could fix it?
how you must have wondered
to see me taking chances,
dancing on the edge of words,
pointing out the bad guys,
dreaming your x-ray vision
could see the beauty in me.
what did i expect? what
did i hope for? we are who we are,
two faithful readers,
not wonder woman and not superman.
Robert Louis Stevenson is well-known for his book, A Child’s Garden of Verses, but it is this same man who penned classics such as The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Treasure Island, and Kidnapped. He was influenced by the writings of Shakespeare, Sir Walter Scott, and John Bunyan, and in turn, found a following with authors Ernest Hemingway, Rudyard Kipling, and J.M. Barrie.
Toward the end of his life, he moved with his family to a Samoan island and acquired the native name for “Story Writer,” Tusitala. Read the poems below and you’ll see that this was a fitting title, for his poems are wrapped as nicely as one of his novels.
Come up here, O dusty feet!
Here is fairy bread to eat.
Here in my retiring room,
Children, you may dine
On the golden smell of broom
And the shade of pine;
And when you have eaten well,
Fairy stories hear and tell.
SHE RESTED BY THE BROKEN BROOK
from Songs of Travel
She rested by the Broken Brook,
She drank of Weary Well,
She moved beyond my lingering look,
Ah, whither none can tell!
She came, she went. In other lands,
Perchance in fairer skies,
Her hands shall cling with other hands,
Her eyes to other eyes.
She vanished. In the sounding town,
Will she remember too?
Will she recall the eyes of brown
As I recall the blue?
Bright is the ring of words
When the right man rings them,
Fair the fall of songs
When the singer sings them.
Still they are carolled and said –
On wings they are carried –
After the singer is dead
And the maker buried.
Low as the singer lies
In the field of heather,
Songs of his fashion bring
The swains together.
And when the west is red
With the sunset embers,
The lover lingers and sings
And the maid remembers.
All poems are listed in their entirety online. How convenient.
I’m working on a poem that’s so true, I can’t show it to anyone.
I could never show it to anyone.
Because it says exactly what I think, and what I think scares me.
Sometimes it pleases me.
Usually it brings misery.
And this poem says exactly what I think.
What I think of myself, what I think of my friends, what I think about my lover.
Exactly.
Parts of it might please them, some of it might scare them.
Some of it might bring misery.
And I don’t want to hurt them, I don’t want to hurt them.
I don’t want to hurt anybody.
I want everyone to love me.
Still, I keep working on it.
Why?
Why do I keep working on it?
Nobody will ever see it.
Nobody will ever see it.
I keep working on it even though I can never show it to anybody.
I keep working on it even though someone might get hurt.
Today is Poem In Your Pocket Day. New Yorkers have enjoyed this tradition since 2002, and now share it with the rest of us literate countrymen. Poets.org has a page of ideas and explanation for this event, so I suggest you pop over to the link above to check it out. However, here are just a few things they encourage us to try:
Add a poem to your email footer
Post a poem on your blog or social networking page
Project a poem on a wall, inside or out
Text a poem to friends
Their website also offers a page of pre-designed poems for your pocket. If you’re like me and are too busy to think through the creative side of this event, simply follow this link and print one off for yourself. Remember, one of the goals in this is to actually share poetry, so maybe find one brave soul in your acquaintance and show them what you have hidden beside you for the day. Make sure to come back here and give me a report of how it went for you.
Here is what their poems for your pockets look like (smaller version):
To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children... to leave the world a better place... to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson
Your whole duty as a writer is to please and satisfy yourself, and the true writer always plays to an audience of one.
—W. Strunk & E.B. White
Writers live twice. They go along with their regular life, are as fast as anyone in the grocery store, crossing the street, getting dressed for work in the morning. But there's another part of them that they have been training. The one that lives everything a second time. That sits down and sees their life again and goes over it. Looks at the texture and details.
—Natalie Goldberg
