Some Thoughts on the Sonnet - Literature - English - The Free Dictionary Language Forums Some Thoughts on the Sonnet Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 4:13:08 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 5,066 Location: Caer Sidi The sonnet has always been difficult for many people to describe. If you ask what a sonnet is, most people would probably reply “a fourteen line poem”. Many poets would call a fourteen line poem a quatorzain just to distinguish it from a sonnet proper, whatever that actually is. Some may even add that it was a ‘fourteen line poem’ in iambic pentameter. In fact the sonnet is incredibly varied; some do not even actually rhyme! Not all of them are fourteen lines either & the metre is usually the prevalent one in the language the poem is written in. In French the Alexandrine dominates & in Italian the hendecasyllable is preferred. The sonnet can be classified into various types, such as Petrarchan, Shakespearean, Miltonic or even Pushkinian but it often seems to defy definition. As a form the sonnet is about seven hundred & fifty years old.

They have been written in English from around the turn of the sixteenth century. Most European languages have produced sonnets. There is a strong possibility that it has its ultimate origin in a Sicilian song form. Piero delle Vigne & Giacomo de Lentini in the early thirteenth century produced the initial forms of the sonnet as we would recognise them today. Guittone d’Arezzo (1230-94) first used the classical ‘Italian’ sonnet (a strict ABBAABBACDCDCD rhyme scheme). Dante (1265-1321) & Petrarch (1304-74) perfected it in their respective sonnet cycles ‘Vita Nuova’ & ‘Canzoniere’. Petrarch was the first to really extol the virtues of the sonnet. His ‘Rime to Laura’ (possibly a pun on the word laurel, as in ‘laureate’) established the essential romantic form & stylistic model of the sonnet we think of today.

Sir Thomas Wyatt, the poet & diplomat, bought the sonnet to the English court & then Henry Howard, the soldier, poet, & Earl of Surrey became the innovator of the form of three quatrains followed by an heroic couplet. This was primarily to solve the problem of rhyming in a language which does not have a natural abundance of them. Its effect on the Elizabethans cannot be underestimated. The sonnet seemed to have the uncanny ability to crystallise thought succinctly & with some potency (not unlike the haiku in Japan). All this in an era when the English idiom was in the most rapidly developing phase it has ever been. New concepts & words were being introduced into the language at an alarming rate. The sonnet quickly developed into more than just a poem & had whole layers & conceits within its pithy form. It reached its apotheosis with Shakespeare’s cycle of a hundred & fifty-three. In the seventeenth century George Herbert (1593-1633) & John Donne (1572-1631) wrote glorious religious sonnets Prayer & Redemption being two of the finer examples of the former.

Donne, who is often seen as the father of the metaphysical poets, wrote some of the most witty & beautiful in the English language in his Songs & Sonets. He also bought a new realism & urgency with an apposite almost psychological penetration which would have a powerful accumulative effect on later poets. John Milton (1608-74) best known for his long narrative poem Paradise Lost, the longest in the English canon, pushed the envelope with the form & often expressed deeply held personal feelings, notwithstanding the addressing of certain political subjects close to his heart. By the time of Doctor Johnson, the celebrated lexicographer & his even more famous dictionary, (1755) the sonnet had become unfashionable. Johnson claimed in his now legendary lexicon that it (the sonnet) was not very suitable for the English language & nobody had done much with it since Milton. In the late eighteenth century the sonnet made a comeback. Spearheaded by William Lisle Bowles & by the nineteenth century the Romantics had raised the form to new heights. Wordsworth & Keats particularly had a lot to do with this.

The Victorians sentimentalised the form somewhat, although Gerard Manley Hopkins had his own particular spin on the type, the sonnet survived to become one of the most popular forms of poetry enjoyed today. The Form: The Volta & The Golden Mean One of the most misunderstood terms regarding the sonnet is the ‘volta’. This a term borrowed from the Italian volte face meaning about turn. The turn is merely a subtle & often poignant change in the subject matter, in the Italian usually after the eighth line & in the English normally after the second stanza. This is often perceived as a psychological device to relieve tension by exacting a change. The Golden Mean was the ratio 8:5 & many people have pointed out that the sonnet seems to exhibit similar characteristics to that ratio that fascinated the ancient world so much. Types of Sonnet: The main difference between the two is that the Italian consists of an octet followed by a sestet where the English form has three quatrains followed by a rhyming couplet.

The Italian or Petrarchan DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow, Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee. From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men thee doe go, Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell, And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well, And better than thy stroake; why swell’st thou then ? One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. John Donne(from the) Holy Sonnets ‘x’ Apart from the antiquated spelling, the use of Middle English personal & impersonal pronouns (*thee & thou) & the old present indicative (think’st) this is definitely an Italian sonnet.

The turn is obvious on the eighth line & the resolution of the subject poignant. * Second person singular accusative & also dative. The Divine poems & Holy Sonnets are amongst the best work that Donne ever produced. The Holy Sonnets were composed after the death of his wife in 1617. He had been recently ordained into the church & the tone of his poetry became very mystical & soul searching. Many of his early poems could be quite bawdy with much innuendo. He is seen as one of the originators of the Metaphysical movement with its clever conceits. Donne emotively generated his arguments bringing a new realism & urgency to lyric poetry. This was combined with great penetration & psychological analysis. Eventually he became the Dean of St Paul’s He died in London on March 31st 1631. The English or Shakespearian Because English, as a language, is notoriously difficult to rhyme in (is there a rhyme with orange?) it was inevitable that a sonnet form would develop that was more suitable to the Germanic language group. Italic languages with their plethora of vowel endings & suffixes are more conducive to rhyming.

The form that developed had three quatrains & ended with a rhyming (or heroic) couplet. This all seems fine on the face of it, but the type has problems of its own. With a rhyme scheme ABAB CDCD EFEF GG, it seemed to make it easier for the placement of the volta after the second quatrain. One of the predicaments of this is that you may not be able to say everything you wish before getting to the last couplet. This can give the impression of trying to cram an idea in at the last minute. At the very least it can make the sonnet look a little hurried. Even some of Shakespeare’s sonnets do not always seem to work when they get to that crucial ending couplet. Here is an amusing look at the form from the poet Katie Mallet: The sonnet is a form that’s favourite With poets who would like to be well known. Its size is modest – tailor-made to fit Small gaps in magazines, the neutral zone Between opposing columns.

Yet its length Gives space enough to state an argument, Although its structure seems to give a strength To quite inconsequential stuff – a vent For thoughts and feelings, at the end controlled By rhymes on every line (though modern bards May stick to assonance). The lines unfold A lasting pleasure, and it’s on the cards The sonnet will be still around when we Like Shakespeare have gained immortality. This is a classic exposition of the rhyme scheme, & just about sums up the English sonnet. Variations: The Spensarian Sonnet One day I wrote her name upon the Strand, But came the waves and washed it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide and made my pains his prey. Vain man (said she), that dost in vain assay A mortal thing so to immortalise; For I myself shall like to this decay, And eke my name be wiped out likewise, Not so (quod I); let baser things devise To lie in dust, but you shall live by fame; My verse your virtues rare shall eternise, And in the heavens write your glorious name: Where, whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.

A popular theme with the Elizabethans, poetry to promote some sort of immortality can become clichéd unless done with care. Spenser utilised a form which is a good compromise with the Petrarchan four-rhymed sonnet & the seven rhymes of the Shakespearean. It interlocks the rhyme scheme ABABBCBCCDCDEE. The Caudate Sonnet SUMMER ends now; now, barbarous in beauty, the stooks rise Around; up above, what wind-walks! What lovely behaviour Of silk-sack clouds! has wilder, wilful-wavier Meal-drift moulded ever and melted across skies? I walk, I lift up, I lift up heart, eyes, Down all that glory in the heavens to go glean our Saviour; And éyes, heárt, what looks, what lips yet gave you a Rapturous love’s greeting of realer, of rounder replies? And the azurous hung hills are his world-wielding shoulder Majestic ¬– as a stallion stalwart, very-violet-sweet!

– These things, these things were here and but the beholder Wanting; which two when they once meet, The heart rears wings bold and bolder And hurls for him, O half hurls earth for him off under his feet. Hurrahing in Harvest ~ Gerard Manley Hopkins This is written in Hopkins’s sprung & outstanding rhythm. The outriding feet are typical of his poetry. Note the alliteration. Hopkins claims that this sonnet was “the outcome of half an hour of extreme enthusiasm as I walked home alone one day from fishing in the Elwy.” His theories on metre are complex. Essentially he believed that in common English only two metric feet are really possible: The accentual trochee & dactyl. These can be combined to create logaoedic rhythm. Because this would be repetitive other ‘feet’ are interspersed between. This gives an effect that Hopkins named ‘counterpoint’ (from the musical term). He believed that Milton was the true master of this rhythm, particularly in the choruses of his Sampson Agonistes. Note the extra tail (or caudate) of the last line.

Notice also how the alliteration & repeated words seem to give the reader a feeling of the swirling wind mentioned in the second line. Hopkins has been in & out of fashion for decades. He has been compared to having as much literary influence as Shakespeare or Dante & yet, has sometimes been ignored completely. Some have compared his love of nature with the poetry of the Pre- Raphaelites. docendo discimus Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 4:39:54 PM Rank: Advanced Member Location: United Kingdom This comment is not addressed to any one in particular. I have written a number of sonnets over the years, however I do not like most of Shakespeare's sonnets since they mainly centre on one subject and are a little repetitive. He seemed to have had a crush on a young man and the language appears inappropriate to me. One does not have to like Shakespeare, although I love his plays and have his complete works. I prefer Robbie burns poetry and like this sonnet posted below. I have Burns complete works too.

Sonnet 'On Hearing A Thrush Sing' Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough, Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain, See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, At thy blythe carol, clears his furrowed brow. Thus in bleak Poverty's dominion drear, Sits meek Content with light, unanxious heart; Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, Nor asks if they bring ought to hope or fear. I thank thee, Author of this opening day! Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient skies! Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys - What wealth could never give nor take away! But come, thou child of poverty and care, The mite high heav'n bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share I like to William Cowpers sonnet to Wilberforce on the subject of slavery. Sonnet to William Wilberforce, Esq.

By William Cowper 1731–1800 William Cowper Thy country, Wilberforce, with just disdain, Hears thee, by cruel men and impious, call'd Fanatic, for thy zeal to loose th' enthrall'd From exile, public sale, and slav'ry's chain. Friend of the poor, the wrong'd, the fetter-gall'd, Fear not lest labour such as thine be vain! Thou hast achiev'd a part; hast gain'd the ear Of Britain's senate to thy glorious cause; Hope smiles, joy springs, and tho' cold caution pause And weave delay, the better hour is near, That shall remunerate thy toils severe By peace for Afric, fenc'd with British laws. Enjoy what thou hast won, esteem and love From all the just on earth, and all the blest above! This is beatiful.

Within a thick and spreading hawthorn bush That overhung a molehill large and round, I heard from morn to morn a merry thrush Sing hymns to sunrise, and I drank the sound With joy; and often, an intruding guest, I watched her secret toil from day to day How true she warped the moss to form a nest, And modelled it within with wood and clay; And by and by, like heath-bells gilt with dew, There lay her shining eggs, as bright as flowers, Ink-spotted over shells of greeny blue; And there I witnessed, in the sunny hours, A brood of nature's minstrels chirp and fly, Glad as the sunshine and the laughing sky. John Clare 1793-1821 It would be nice to hear others choices too. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.

Aristotle Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 4:47:28 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 5,066 Location: Caer Sidi Arguably the most famous poet in the English language, William Shakespeare, obviously needs no introduction. Of the many legends about him, one of them is that he was born & died on the same date: St George's day (April 23rd), fifty two years being between them of course. St George, conveniently being the patron saint of England. Warwickshire parish records state that he was baptised on April 26th 1564, his father was a leading citizen of the town of Stratford-Upon-Avon & his mother belonged to the landed gentry of the afore mentioned county shire. It is generally believed that the sonnets were written in two periods of time; the earlier works being written between 1592-96 around the same time as 'The Merchant of Venice' & 'A Midsummer Night's Dream' & the later sonnets written around 1600-08 between the composition of the later plays of 'Julius Caesar' & 'Hamlet'.

It is worth pointing out, however, that not all Shakespearian scholars agree on these dates & many disagree on almost everything. The sonnets were first published in 1609 for the printer Thomas Thorpe in addition to a three hundred & twenty-nine line poem in Rhyme Royal entitled 'A Lover's Complaint'. The latter poem is now not considered by some scholars to actually be the work of Shakespeare. However they seemed to be quite satisfactorily printed & it was 1640 before another edition was produced. The order of the sonnets themselves being changed slightly. I do not intend to go into the various controversies surrounding the sonnets. I am not that concerned as to whether they were based on real experiences or not, whether they are in a coherent sequence or not, who the rival poet & dark lady were or were not etc. I especially do not want to speculate on which particular young man the Bard was encouraging to engage in matrimony in the first cycle of seventeen sonnets commencing with sonnet one. I tend to agree with W.H.

Auden, that there has been enough nonsense written about these subjects over the past couple of hundred years, & anyone who wishes to research this literary quagmire of speculation may do so at his or her own leisure. Although in my opinion; Auden was just as guilty as many others in his own peculiar speculations about the Bard. However, I do agree with the British writer Anthony Holden, that the great mystery of the now famous dedication to the enigmatic Mr W H, is probably the printer acknowledging the source of the acquisition of the sonnets themselves. This was most probably Shakespeare's indigent brother-in-law William Hathaway trying to make a pretty penny out of his famous relative. This next interesting sonnet is very typical of Shakespeare. He was a master of alliteration in combination with assonance. Take your time & read this poem out aloud. The first quatrain has a comma after the verb wink, & in effect it gives the first line a slight caesura before it proceeds. This apparently simple device beautifully brings out & contrasts the labio-nasal & dental-nasal n & m consonants respectively.

As we move into the second line the partial vowel rhymes seem to lead logically to the sibilant sounds at the end of it. These combinations of phonemes & the usage of sibilants are very characteristic of Shakespeare & almost amount to a trademark of sorts. Notice how he uses a great deal of alliteration in combination with the repetition of certain words to give this work such a powerful aural effect. The couplet beautifully rounds off the entire poem. Haven't we all dreamed of a loved one at some time, then awoken to find that it was a dream after all. How perfectly stated is that sentiment in this sonnet? XLIII When most I wink, then do mine eyes best see, For all the day they view things unrespected; But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee, And, darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright, How would thy shadow shadow's form form happy show To the clear day with thy much clearer light, When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!

How would, I say, mine eyes, be blessed made By looking on thee in the living day, When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade Through heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay! All days are nights to see till I see thee, And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. This next poem is a bit of an oddity. It was included in the sonnets & yet has the peculiar distinction of being only twelve lines & written entirely in couplets. Whether this was considered a sonnet by the poet or not is another question. One of the concepts I have being trying to promulgate in this series of columns about the sonnet is that, as a form, it was not always considered as fixed as we tend to think it is today. Indeed, this may have just as much been considered a sonnet to Shakespeare as any of the others he wrote. Of course, that is if he is in fact the author. It does not seem to be his best work! We will probably never know for certain.

CXXVI O thou, my lovely boy, who is in thy power Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour; Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st Thy lovers withering as thy sweet self grow'st; If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back, She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skill May time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure! She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure: Her audit, though delay'd, answer'd must be, And her quietus is to render thee. Perhaps we should give Matthew Arnold the last say on the Bard: Shakespeare (A sonnet on) Others abide our question. Thou art free. We ask and ask: Thou smilest and art still, Out-topping knowledge.

For the loftiest hill That to the stars uncrowns his majesty, Planting his steadfast footsteps in the sea, Making the Heaven of Heavens his dwelling-place, Spares but the cloudy border of his base To the foil'd searching of mortality: And thou, who didst the stars and sunbeams know, Self-school'd, self-scann'd, self-honour'd, self-secure, Didst walk on Earth unguess'd at. Better so! All pains the immortal spirit must endure, All weakness that impairs, all griefs that bow, find their sole voice in that victorious brow. Matthew Arnold Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 5:01:10 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 5,066 Location: Caer Sidi Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin was born in Moscow in 1799. He is considered to be one of the most important & influential of Russian poets & writers. In fact many Russians believe that their literature did not start until Pushkin. Not unlike Shakespeare in England he set a standard of beauty in the Russian language that has never been surpassed.

After a brief flirtation with the pre-Decembrist revolutionaries in 1820 he was exiled in disgrace. With the failure of the Decembrist’s uprising in 1825 & the succession of a new Tsar he gained his freedom. He was married to a young society beauty in 1831. The marriage was not a happy one & his wife shared little of his artistic & intellectual talents or interests. She loved fashionable society & the intrigues of the Imperial Court. Pushkin could ill afford this way of life & many courtiers looked down on him because of his less than prestigious background. Many of his contemporaries were jealous of his genius & started a vile campaign to slander him. This culminated with a vitriolic attack by the Baron Georges d’Anthes, a French royalist in the Russian service, who suggested rumours of an improper liaison between the Tsar & Pushkin’s wife. Duty bound to defend her honour he fought a duel with the aforementioned Baron. Fatally wounded Pushkin died on the 29th of January 1837. His death was mourned throughout Russia as a national disaster.

The Pushkinian sonnet was used by him in his allegorical narrative poem ‘Eugene Onegin’. Each stanza was comprised of a sonnet with an ABABCCDDEFFEGG rhyme scheme. Each line has 4 iambic feet (8 syllables) & to cap it all lines 1, 3,5,6,9 & 12 have feminine rhymes the rest being masculine. The iambic tetrameter sounds odd to English speaker’s ears. Verse one, Chapter five That year the season was belated and autumn lingered, long and slow; expecting winter, nature waited - only in January the snow, night of the second, started flaking. Next day Tatyana, early waking, saw through the window, morning-bright, roofs, flowerbeds, fences, all in white, panes patterned by the finest printer, with trees decked in their silvery kit, and jolly magpies on the flit, and hills that delicately winter had with its brilliant mantle crowned - and glittering whiteness all around.

The peculiar sonnet/stanza form employed by Pushkin (this particular one from chapter five of Eugene Onegin) was possibly developed by the author by the influence of the contes of La Fontaine who had influenced so many other Russian poets. Notice that even in translation this sonnet is punctuated almost like a prose piece & has a predictable advance in flow & scan. If you read carefully you will notice a spin or eddy type effect mid way through the piece before its inevitable conclusion. This was compared by the Russian writer Vladimir Nabakov with the effect that a painted spinning ball or top has. It certainly gives the sonnet a strange almost psychedelic feel. Eugene Onegin: Alexander Pushkin, translated by Charles Johnston, Penguin Classics, 1979. docendo discimus Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 5:16:19 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 3,404 Location: United Kingdom There are many styles of poetry, the sonnet is one of those, as most of you will know. Rhyming poetry can be very lyrical and the rhyming words do not need to come at the end the line but can be within the line.

One can rhyme in couplets or every first third or fifth line etcetera. The most important thing about poetry is not that it rhymes, but that it has rhythm… poetry must have rhythm or beat to it and be musical like the running of water with no obstacles to its course. Poetry without rhythm is not poetry. Some folk think they can write poetry but it is disjointed and is often poor prose. I often make use of alliteration and that can be very powerful. Here is an example in my poem below. Note verse three. A MOMENT IN LATE SPRING Observed from a vantage point on a track off Whitton Church Lane, Ipswich.2002 Light green barley fields and darkened wheat, Yellow buttercups beneath my feet. Late spring breezes wafting across the vale, Bringing sensuous scents in their tail. While high amidst blue sky, fluffy clouds Block blazing sun like covering shrouds. Barley heads catch the wind, like sea-borne waves they ride, Sweeping up the valley side. Deep down below the winding river ever flows, From whence it came to there it goes. Welcome, refreshing, an enduring feature A source of life to every creature.

Sky darkens and long shadows lean, and stretch Their gloomy presence o’er the scene. Distant ominous rumbling rolls of thunder sound, Then in alarm, piercing pheasant cries resound. And like cornets complementing big base drums, The rookery adds its strident strums. Each moment soon becomes a memory lost in the past, Adding to histories massive cast. Of fields and ways, weeks and days, people and places. Of hope and despair, of long lost races. While we, existing always in the present, never the future or the past, Yet acting for them both. Cling to the moment between them; a fragile existence. Our lives entwined with these opposing forces figure in each tense, While we sit upon the cusp of each, with both beyond our reach, Observing futures arrival as it becomes the past; nothing lasts. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Just a passing scene, and but a glimmer of reality. Then in the flicker of an eyelid it reaches finality. Then there is thought poetry. The Psalms are thought poetry. A good example of this is the 23 rd. Psalm.

The Lord is my Shepherd…’ is the first thought, then in true rhythm ‘I shall not want.’ The beauty is in the logical follow on. If God is your shepherd then you will not want. The Psalms are considered to be some of the most beautiful poetry in the form of songs ever penned. Shakespeare and Burns stole from them The Song of Solomon is very poetic. 'Bowels' ( splag’khna) are often used in scripture to denote innermost feelings, and in the case of the maiden in Solomon’s love song are not referring to the function normally associated with such, but rather to deep emotions. So: She is in love with the shepherd boy and he places his hand on the door jamb... the entrance to her house... and she experiences deep emotions... Now that is observant and poetic. Poetry does not need to rhyme by word but can have rhythm by thought. In the New Testament the Greek word Splag’khna… meaning intestines… is more often used metaphorically to denote affections… tender affections and compassions The use of same sounding words is also powerful. I wrote this on a windy day.

EARLY MORNING WINDS Worrying winds, scurrying winds, hurrying, greet the morn Heralding in the break of dawn. Pleasing winds, easing winds, coming from the west. Clattering winds, shattering winds, putting all to test. Biting winds, fighting winds, lifting up dried leaves Twirling, furling, hurling round the oak and ash. Buffeting winds, huffeting winds, sallying up the cottage eaves. Bustling winds, hustling winds, loud and brash. Whistling winds, bristling winds, sweeping o’er the boughs Playing like the breeze, swaying in the trees Carrying winds, harrying winds, troubling the cows. Dancing winds, prancing winds, delighting so to tease. Meddling winds, peddling winds, bringing all their litter. Broody winds, moody winds, threatening a gale. Tarrying winds, parrying winds, fiddling with the sitter. Distrusting winds, mistrusting winds, shilly-shallying up the vale. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.

Aristotle Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 5:26:37 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 5,066 Location: Caer Sidi Sir John Suckling (1609-1642) was educated at Trinity College, Cambridge. He was descended from an old Norfolk family & inherited large estates. He travelled in Europe & was knighted on his return. His was described by John Aubrey (1626-1697) the English antiquarian as being ' the greatest gallant of his time, and the greatest gamester, both for bowling and cards, so that no shopkeeper would trust him for 6d'. In fact Aubrey believed that he invented the game of Cribbage. He supposedly had a sparkling wit and was also great admirer of the works of Shakespeare. His chief works are included in Fragmenta Aurea (1646) which include poems, plays, letters & tracts. According to Aubrey he committed suicide in Paris.

Sonnet Of thee (kind boy) I ask no red and white To make up my delight, No odd becoming graces, Black eyes, or little know-not-whats, in faces; Make me but mad enough, give me good store Of love, for her I court, I ask no more, 'Tis love in love that makes the sport. There's no such thing as that we beauty call, It is meer cosenage all; For though some long ago Lik'd certain colours mingled so and so, That doth not tie me now from chusing new; If I fancy take That fancy doth it beauty make. 'Tis not the meat, but 'tis the appetite Makes eating a delight, And if I like one dish More than another, that a Pheasant is; What in our watches, that in us is found, So to the height and nick We up be wound, No matter by what hand or trick. Sonnet Oh! for some honest lovers ghost, Some kind unbodied post Sent from the shades below. I strangely long to know Whether the noble Chaplets wear, Those that their mistresse scorn did bear, Or those that were us'd kindly.

For what-so-e'er they tell us here To make those sufferings dear, 'Twill there I fear be found, That to the being crown'd, T'have lov'd alone will not suffice, Unlesse we also have been wise, And have our Loves enjoy'd. What posture can we think him in, That here unlov'd agen Where each sits by his own? Or how can that Elizium be Where I my Mistresse still must see Circled in others Arms? For there the judges are all just, And Sophonisba must Be his whom she held dear; Not his who lov'd her here: The sweet Philoclea since she died Lies by her Pirocles his side Not by Amphialus. Some Bayes (perchance) or Myrtle bough For difference crowns the brow Of those kind souls that were The noble Martyrs here; And if that be the only odds, (As who can tell) ye kinder Gods, Give me the woman here. (Fragmenta Aurea 1646) What are we to make of these two apparently linked poems? Are they indeed sonnets? The first comprises of three connected verses with a definite rhyme scheme.

The verses of eight lines rhyme AA BB CD CD. This makes the whole sequence twenty eight lines of iambic pentameter. The syllable count is also not totally regular either. The second sonnet chain is different yet again. Five stanzas of seven lines consisting of a slightly inconsistent rhyme scheme that seems to be based on couplets. Perhaps Sir John had more liberal views on the interpretation of the sonnet than we do today! docendo discimus Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 5:40:52 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 3,404 Location: United Kingdom Poetry is a force to be reckoned with. It is a great teaching aid. When I taught English I would often select a poem and use this as a vehicle. One of my favourites was The Listeners by Walter de la Mare I would get a student to read it and then show them how it should be read. We would then discuss this mysterious rider who risked footpads in the dead of night to deliver a message. We would analyse his character and wonder what was so important about the message. Then I would ask the class to write an essay with the poem as the conclusion.

After we would discuss the language used to carry the story they had written. It was always a great lesson. The Listeners "Is there anybody there?" said the Traveller, Knocking on the moonlit door; And his horse in the silence champed the grass Of the forest's ferny floor; And a bird flew up out of the turret, Above the Traveller's head: And he smote upon the door again a second time; "Is there anybody there?" he said. But no one descended to the Traveller; No head from the leaf-fringed sill Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes, Where he stood perplexed and still. But only a host of phantom listeners That dwelt in the lone house then Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight To that voice from the world of men: Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair, That goes down to the empty hall, Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken By the lonely Traveller's call.

And he felt in his heart their strangeness, Their stillness answering his cry, While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf, 'Neath the starred and leafy sky; For he suddenly smote on the door, even Louder, and lifted his head:-- "Tell them I came, and no one answered, That I kept my word," he said. Never the least stir made the listeners, Though every word he spake Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house From the one man left awake: Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup, And the sound of iron on stone, And how the silence surged softly backward, When the plunging hoofs were gone. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. Aristotle Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 5:53:59 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 5,066 Location: Caer Sidi Funny thing is, when I started this topic, I thought it would be about sonnets. Hence why I called it what I did. Anyway ... back to the original topic of thoughts on the sonnet ...

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822) was born at Field Place, Sussex. Although energetic, imaginative & mischievous as a child he was eventually educated at Eton & Oxford. At Oxford he read radical authors such as Paine & Godwin & in March 1811 was summarily rusticated (expelled) for distributing a pamphlet entitled The Necessity of Atheism with his friend T.J. Hogg. He was drowned in August 1822 when his small schooner the 'Ariel' sank in a squall. To her dying day Mary Shelley believed the design of the schooner was a flawed one & the Royal Navy were responsible in part for not making this known about the design of the class of boat. Which was originally designed for the Admiralty & abandoned by it after only a short time. Many Nautical experts are now of the opinion that the design was unstable in squalls & sudden storms. Although there is an argument for dwelling on his intellectual arrogance, abstraction & often nauseating self-pity, Shelley was an incredibly original & imaginative writer. His hatred of injustice & oppression are evident in much of his poetry.

This is ably interspersed with an admirable intellectual courage & often wickedly mischievous sense of humour. Ozymandius I met a traveller from an antique land Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert . . . Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed: And on the pedestal these words appear: 'My name is Ozymandius, king of kings: Look on my works, ye Mighty and depair!' Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare The lone and level sands stretch far away. This poem was printed in The Examiner by Hunt in January 1818. He had recently finished work on at least a couple of his long narrative projects. It was written in 1817 however, after Shelley had been reading the Hymns of Homer & the Iliad.

Mary Shelley noted that he seemed to have lost his eager spirit which, 'believed he could change things for the betterment of mankind', & had become rather contemplative. He seemed to find great solace in the classics. He did not excel in the sonnet as a form, possibly because of his temperament, which seemed to dislike the discipline of imposed forms of any description. The sonnet itself has been criticised by many as not being totally successful as a poem, but it is possibly one of the most famous of any of his works. I think that its brilliance as a poem is in the fact that he presents the irony of the statue of the famous king (Ramses II) instead of taking an ironical tone in the narrative itself. And because of this I think we can overlook such tautological phrases as 'the decay of that colossal wreck'. It is in essence an Italian sonnet but with an odd almost unique rhyme scheme.

docendo discimus Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 6:11:18 PM Rank: Advanced Member Posts: 1,648 Neurons: 4,678 To Percival: I didn't realize you were such a good poet.:) And the final poem you posted, The Listener ,to be used for the class to write their essay on is a good one too. Posted: Saturday, November 10, 2012 6:13:02 PM Rank: Advanced Member Neurons: 3,404 Location: United Kingdom Although I have written sonnets I consider the rather contrived. Of course that is a generalisation and there are, of course, some beautiful sonnets. I think the more contrived a poem the more likelihood that fact it will be noticed. For my part the best of my poems come out in a rush.... a moment of inspiration. I started the one below while waiting for a bus one spring day. I immediately completed it on arriving home.

SPRING Started while waiting for a bus in Stafford Road, Ipswich 2001 The folds of winter now unfurl to give birth to beauteous spring. The sun shines down, the flowers uncurl, and feathered friends begin to sing The heart leaps up when life renews and seasons ring the changes. Then joy and peace my heart imbues, as new clothing spring arranges. The blossom blooms, the bittern booms. The air is sweet and pleasant. The rooks are nesting, Jack Frost is resting. Loud shouts the courting pheasant. The cuckoo comes from distant lands to seek a parent foster. The tree gives forth the early buds according to their roster. The pussy willows with coats of ermine, bedeck the riverbanks. The swallows line the hanging wire in deference to their ranks. The snowdrops clad the woodland floor, before their cousin hyacinth. The lark in skies above does soar, The hawk he settles on his plinth. The frog he would a wooing go his offspring so to spawn. The grass we now have cause to mow, to keep it as a lawn.

The toad his plaintive call does croak, a siren for his mate. The Blackthorn white is covered, like a cloak, the Hawthorn has to wait. The carrion crow nests in her tree in solitary confinement The fox gives birth beside woodland lea. The sycamores head spreads like a tent. The march winds whistle o’er the meadow. The April showers are warm and wet. The duck her young she has in tow. The spider mends her silky net. Ma hedgehog finds a shady place beneath a crumbling wall She there gives birth to save her race, and the watcher makes his daily call. The woodpecker shouts his laughing cries. The partridge settles on her eggs. Fluffy clouds adorn light blue skies, as the new-born lamb finds its legs. Butterflies flit from flower to flower, their stamens to caress. The harvest mouse makes her grassy bower. The cowslip dons its dress. Life flourishes in every corner with vibrancy and zest, Variety of flower and fauna living at their best. The never -ending tale of spring mere words cannot encompass.

Were I to tell of gossamer and of pretty courting lass, Were I to tell of new spring growth, of fragrance and of scent, Were I to tell of glorious blossom and of changes to earth’s tent, Were I to fill a library full of all that spring does yield, Of badger deer and gambolling bull. Of hedgerow meadow lane and field. I could not e’en with all my power, to my reader just impart, The beauty wonder and sheer delight that spring engenders in my heart. A cheer for spring and its marvellous gifts, praise for our great maker. Thanks for spring as our spirit it lifts. A prayer to God our Grand Creator The following poem was largely while walking in bangkok anfd feeling homesick. I wrote it on the hoof. GONE NOW ARE MY BEAUTIFUL ELMS Written in Bangkok May 10th 2010 Gone now are my beautiful English Elms, those sentinels that bordered the old School Lane.

Ah mighty trees that withstood the storms of times, marking the days of our transient ways They lined the hill from the old brook bridge to the kissing gate, by the village school Once a part of my being, but now they have gone, so who is it that shall their sing their song? Towering above the golden cornfields, weathering the gale of a winter blow, darkened, stark Against whitened snow, surviving all for an autumn show. Where are you now oh trees of my Youth, you were solid, lasting, a constant feature you were meant to stay, to outlast my day. I miss your roots across the lane I miss your green’ed shoots, your majestic regal silent bearing, your creature care your golden leaves against blue sky, I came to see you but you were not there. Something called Dutch elm disease, a fungus, struck you down with ease, while windstorm lightning hail and thunder could not break your boughs asunder.

A little Elm Bark Beetle vector in this unholy alliance, worked his way with all compliance to spread the spores of death, leaving me and all bereft of the mighty solid touchstones of our past Lo, but not all is lost to nature’s wanton ways for yet live the great old trees within my fold of memories, I see them swaying in the breeze- I hear their whispering voices above shafts of yellow sunlight through the shadows dark- hark I heed the call of memory mind- the prods of days and moments past, But when my memory dies with me, companion to the last, once more the great old Elms will pass, for all eternity. Wait, yet beneath this hardened ground, below this hilly mound, there are the roots of those old trees and look see, along the hedgerow side by side bursting forth are new-born shoots that grow. Perhaps in future days they will bless this lane, and once again tower above the eye line plane. As for me I am near to passing but my soul delights at natures lasting, my children will live beyond my years, my Elms survive my morbid fears the children they spawn quell my tears.

Life and its demands have the victory won and Elms will line this ancient lane when I am gone. My children’s children and their children will pass my way. The Elms will see yet another day. ******* English Elms are hermaphrodites and although they produce seed it is not fertile. The English elms almost always spread through their roots by producing suckers. The Dutch elm disease is a fungus transported or spread through the tree, and from tree to tree, by the Elm Bark Beetle. At one time this glorious tree was a widespread feature of the English landscape. It can grow to over 40 meters and have diameter of 2 meters. Its wood is used for all sorts of things. It was used for coffins… wheel hubs… sewer and water pipes… furniture… shipbuilding… roofing and boarding… carts etc. As a boy I used to race down one school lane hill and up the other side on my bicycle, dodging the roots of the great old elms, until I got to a short straight and flat length which led to the kissing gate and my village school.

Or I would walk home to Cherry Orchard, Tuttsclump, down School Lane on a hot summer’s day in the welcome shade of Ulmus Procera, the English Elm. School lane was not open to traffic; it was a narrow dirt track. Its journey took you across a bridged stream and then through fields, past spinneys and allotment’s once you had walked through the elms that lined one side of the lane. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. Aristotle No more, ye warblers of the wood! no more; Nor pour your descant grating on my soul; Thou young-eyed Spring! gay in thy verdant stole, More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. How can ye charm, ye flowers, with all your dyes? Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend! How can I to the tuneful strain attend? That strain flows round the untimely tomb where Riddell lies. Yes, pour, ye warblers! pour the notes of woe, And soothe the Virtues weeping o'er his bier: The man of worth-and hath not left his peer!

Is in his "narrow house," for ever darkly low. Thee, Spring! again with joy shall others greet; Me, memory of my loss will only meet. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. Aristotle The sonnet is almost too forlorn And which sort to employ is never easy, A Petrarchan would be such an intense form: The Pushkinian always makes me feel queasy. Both Spenser & Byron would well mourn A Miltonic lack of use of volta, Unless an 'about face' you would warn And make me hesitate and falter. The sestet has just now arrived Without a noticeable change in pace; Yet now I am just as well subscribed To end my poem with no disgrace. Like I should have aught else to fear I'll go with the scheme of Shakespeare. Well, this self-penned slightly whimsical sonnet may not scan too well but I am bound to re-write it another 67 times! LOL docendo discimus Peace D, I mean no offense, I just love poetry and have posted several sonnets. I am a life-long poet and love other's works too. One is always learning.

I am not trolling you and did not give that a thought. Poetry touches a nerve in me, and i see it does in you. Just enjoy. I was trying to keep to the topic of sonnets though. Otherwise it will just get a tad diffuse. Fair do's though, at least you are contributing. Maybe we've scared off anyone else through the sheer volume of material we've posted. At least we've posted some food for thought. It's either this or I'll have to start debating evolution with dusty again. Do you have any more sonnets? docendo discimus This is an attempt of mine in the 'couplet' formless style: The Rediscovered Country The cold and the hoar frost both remind me of you And the rediscovered country of yesterday Is invoked by an old song on the radio. Yes! I often revisit those halcyon times When it seemed the whole wide world was naïve and young Blossoming with the arrogance of callow youth. But that is a fragile flower and it gives birth To strange fruit that slowly ripens with many hues, Shades of colour plus great diversification With many evolving species before it falls. And fall it does! Sometimes closer to the tree than Anybody really expected.

However In the long run none of this will really matter Because the roots of the tree last eternally. docendo discimus Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells; And students with their pensive citadels; Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom, Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom, High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells, Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells: In truth the prison, into which we doom Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me, In sundry moods, 'twas pastime to be bound Within the Sonnet's scanty plot of ground; Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be) Who have felt the weight of too much liberty, Should find brief solace there, as I have found. According to Wordsworth in his note to Isabella Fenwick this series of seven sonnets was 'written on the roof of a coach, on my way to France'. He also remarked in the same note that he could repeat the sonnets of Milton by heart.

He had loved them ever since Dorothy had read them to him many years before. He was particularly impressed with the 'style of harmony & the gravity, & republican austerity of these compositions.' This third sonnet in his series has an ABBA ABBA CDDC CD rhyme scheme with the volta fairly conventionally placed at the eighth line. This poem is notable, if for nothing else, for giving us an insight into Wordsworth's views on the 'sonnet's scanty plot of ground'. docendo discimus When I consider how my light is spent, E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite.

John Milton As a teenager, my friends and I used to play on Watership Down. You can walk all the way to Inkpen across the downs. Overlooking the village is an old hangman’s gibbet. Written 2002 Dark, stark against open sky high, on grassy upland down. Stands alone an ancient oaken Gibbet, Sentinel above sunken valley, pointing o’er market town. Old, cold, wrinkled, grey and knotted, creaking squeaking To the tune of high land winds. Tho’ inert and voiceless, yet by standing is also speaking. No need for words, for explanations or for reasons, Enough just to resist the march of time, To exist throughout the constant changing seasons. Monument to salutary justice and witness to great error, Ending for murderer and poacher alike. Designed, carefully placed to induce deep lasting terror A memorial of swifter yet more uncertain judgment climes, A relic of the past, existing now in these more genteel times I did on one occasion write a poem to order. A friend of mine had fallen head-over-heels in love with a girl, and asked me to write a love poem for him.

He palmed it off as his own in an attempt to woo her. She saw through him...he was not a romantic and she guessed. It is set out below. THE RIVER IS YOU Written and composed by request.2002 Deep runs the river wide and strong, swift and long. ‘Deep is my love for you my river girl for whom I long.’ Relentless is the river o’er all in its road, for it has no abode. ‘Where are you my love, where have you been and to where are you going.’ By Valley by field the river does wind, a thread of life to those who find. ‘My dear one without you my life is a mist, I cannot breathe or exist.’ Cruel is the river to all who oppose for that is the way it flows. ‘What have I done my love that you should harm, come, my soul do calm.’ Ever onward speeds the river by every twist and bend, drawn to its end. ‘Take care, do take care my love, for you are a river.’ Ever goes the river along the path of time, o’er rock and cline.

‘Eternal is my love for you my river girl, for whom I pine.’ Brightly shines the river glistening in the sun, on its downward run. ‘The light from your face my dear one, is oh more than the sun and stars.’ Moving never pausing is the river, swift and bold who can hold. ‘How will I keep you my love, how will I hold you and take you.’ Silent is the river on its chosen way, ignoring night or day. ‘Speak to me my love answer my word, perhaps you have heard.’ Dangerous is the river like unruly child, turbulent and wild. ‘Take care do take care my dear one, for you are a river.’ It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it.

Aristotle When I consider how my light is spent, E're half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one Talent which is death to hide, Lodg'd with me useless, though my Soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, least he returning chide, Doth God exact day-labour, light deny'd, I fondly ask; But patience to prevent That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need Either man's work or his own gifts, who best Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed And post o're Land and Ocean without rest: They also serve who only stand and waite. John Milton Yeah, I'm a huge Milton fan, even if he did have a bit of a pole up the jacksy about fricative 'H' sounds. I suppose I should have said that 'I'm a 'uge Milton fan' in that case. docendo discimus Ex you asked: Did you have music in mind when writing that last one, perc ?

No, I used the word composed in the sense that it was structured with a person in mind, and to acheive an aim. The words dod not flow as in inspiration... except for the idea to use a river and its nature as a simile. It was like laying bricks. I too love Milton... threre are so many poems I would love to have written. I get ideas from others as to style, sometimes and write in many forms. Here is an unusual style for me. MUSINGS ON THE PENDULUM OF LIFE While on an imaginary train journey and to the beat of a train from verse two…vary tempo. . Warm blows the gentle breeze across the new mown grass, Cold lies the form beneath. Bright shines the early morning sun o’er the graveyards past, Dark the coffin in its sheath. Light and dark warmth and cold, Life and death young and old. Ceaseless change, boring routine, Athletic body, crushed spleen. The pendulum swings the pendulum sings. Back and forth fail and fight. The pendulum swings the pendulum wings. To and fro, black and white. Peace and war rim and core. Joy and sadness health and sickness. Want and plenty less and more.

Kind and cruel curse and bless. Back and forth, back and forth, To and fro, to and fro. Unrelenting no recourse. Constant movement constant flow. Love and hate, save and waste. Brash and mellow red and yellow. Slow and haste set and paste. Growth and fallow kind and callow. So it goes with this and that. Him and her clear and blur. Dog and cat gloss and matt. Smooth and burr leave and stir. Weak and strong short and long. Constant motion constant rhythm. Pain and pleasure right and wrong. Mend and join split and schism. Tick tock delight and shock. Ding dong here and gone. And again and again. Pleasure and pain pleasure and pain. Life and death life and death. Faith and hope faith and hope. Life and death life and death. Try and cope try and cope. It is the mark of an educated mind to be able to entertain a thought without accepting it. Aristotle Bedraggled old blackbird stalking my lawn Jerking & shirking, putting on airs Sneakily skulking about his affairs Flight feathers akimbo he stands so forlorn.

Sidling, idling, never giving a yawn That head cocking slyly giving me stares & covered in a motley he constantly wears Of feathers & fuzziness repeatedly torn. He's out with the 'Dawn chorus' He's back with the 'evening song' Grabbing & grubbing looking for worms, Yet, he'll not make a fuss Well, perhaps not for long If any young bird dares challenge his terms. Sheep of Another Fold I knew my love was unrequited When she combed & pulled her hair. They say you can't be disappointed With a love that's not returned. We were sheep of different folds; I knew that even then. It's not like that I felt too spurned For an amour unknown. They say it is the purist love - The unreciprocated. But you were flattered, secretely, As if I didn't know... That last kiss...gingerly... You finally let it show. I'm counting this as a sonnet as it has 14 lines. As I said earlier, the actual definition of a sonnet is more loose than many would assume. Plus I'm still on topic ... docendo discimus

Question: What is the two-word alliterative name for the tree Ulmus procera?
Answer: ENGLISH ELM