Posts Tagged ‘love’

So for this week’s biographical tidbit… Shakespeare’s life and lifestyle are so blurred by time that now, four centuries later, very few details about him are without controversy.  Some Shakespeare “scholars,” both genuine and self-acclaimed, seem to delight in questioning common beliefs about the Bard. 

I must confess, I am no exception.  Although I don’t call myself a Shakespeare scholar, I still enjoy finding interpretations of his sonnets that don’t completely mesh with the mainstream.

Even the very idea that he wrote the plays attributed to him is sometimes questioned.

To quote from the Wikipedia article on the “Shakespeare authorship question“:

The Shakespeare authorship question is the ongoing debate, first recorded in the early 18th century, about whether the works attributed to William Shakespeare of Stratford-upon-Avon were actually written by another writer, or a group of writers.  Among the numerous alternative candidates that have been proposed, major claimants have included Francis Bacon, Christopher Marlowe, and William Stanley (6th Earl of Derby).  The most popular [alternate-author] theory of the 20th century was that Shakespeare’s works were written by Edward de Vere (17th Earl of Oxford).

Personally, I think the notion of an “alternate author” is ridiculous.  Common justifications given for these theories range from “he couldn’t have been smart enough to write those plays” to “there’s not enough evidence that he actually wrote them.”  Considering how few records we have from four hundred years ago — especially about Shakespeare’s intelligence and education — both of these arguments (and most others) seem pretty shaky… or so it seems to me.

Sonnet 23

As an unperfect actor on the stage,
Who with his fear is put beside his part,
Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might.
O! let my looks be then the eloquence
And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
      O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
      To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.

What I get out of it

An unperfect actor?

How ironic it seems to us, in the twenty-first century, to think that Shakespeare was sometimes at a loss for words.  However, this is exactly the message he tries to communicate in Sonnet 23:  sometimes, even the great bard is silenced by intensity of emotion.

Like “an unperfect actor on the stage,” whose stage fright prevents him from slipping into his role… or like a “fierce thing” whose “too much rage” proves his undoing… Shakespeare’s poetic persona finds that his overflowing love makes it hard to express his affection with the “perfect ceremony” that love deserves.

His “love’s strength” makes Shakespeare’s composure “decay” – he is “o’ercharg’d” or overwhelmed with the heavy “burthen” of communicating how strongly he feels.

In desperation, Shakespeare pleads that his lover let his “looks,” or facial expression and body language, “be then the eloquence” that he cannot put into words.  His body language and “speaking breast,” which I take to mean his pounding heart, must “plead for love” instead of “that tongue” that he usually uses to express his feelings.

The closing couplet sums up his plea nicely:  “learn to read” the body language that “silent love” has written into his expression and pose; “to hear with eyes” is an appropriate skill for a lover’s “fine wit.”

Is it relevant?

I would say so.  In fact, this might be the first sonnet I’ve discussed that genuinely struck me as being rather sweet.  Sonnets like “shall I compare thee to a summer’s day” is so often quoted, it has become more of a cliché than a romantic expression.  Many of Shakespeare’s other poems, such as Sonnet 22, contain a hint of warning cynicism within their lines.

The sonnet above, on the other hand, expresses a sweetly innocent love that we can all recall… the moment of being left speechless, hearts pounding, staring into the face of our adoration and having absolutely nothing coherent to say.  I felt this way many times as my wife and I began dating.

You know what?  I often still do.

[T]hou hast ravished my heart with one of thine eyes, with one chain of thy neck. — Song of Solomon 4:9

(Coat of arms credit and license)

Us.

I was standing in front of about eighty people, though I was not facing them, and I was wearing a rented suit, black, with white shirt and teal tie, and I was almost the guest of honor. 

The real guest of honor would come walking up the aisle any second. 

To my right, on either side of a fieldstone wall, were high windows, floor to ceiling, overlooking a patch of woods still bearing some of its autumn glory. 

To my left were two families waiting to be joined together. 

The pianist played beautifully but subtly, letting the moment happen without interfering. 

I tried to remember that breathing slowly and evenly reduced the chance of fainting.  I tried to remember to avoid the deer-in-headlights expression that I could feel just beneath the surface.  I tried not to remember that the wedding I was attending was mine. 

Ours. 

The pianist paused, the church fell silent, and then, with the first few notes of Vivaldi’s “La primavera” just beginning to ascend to the high ceiling, she appeared.

I forgot how to breathe.  My heart forgot how to beat… I could feel it stop, hesitate, shiver with excitement, and finally — just in time — step back into its now-hastened rhythm. 

I don’t know whether my gasp was audible.  I do know that to feel air swelling my lungs, to feel my heart pounding in my chest, and to see my bride proceeding up the aisle were the sweetest yet most terrifying sensations I have ever experienced.

She was perfect.

I nearly had tears spilling from my eyes even before she came close enough to see them.  When she stood not-quite-arm’s-length in front of me and I repeated my vows, I could barely see her.  How I kept raw emotion from spilling down my cheeks, I’ll never know.  And when her voice broke during her vows, there was barely a dry cheek in the building, although we — still — managed to contain our own tears, somehow.

We did cry, later.

(She is still perfect.) 

Nevertheless let every one of you in particular so love his wife even as himself… — Ephesians 5:33

Again I’m guilty of skipping a bit in the sequence of sonnets. Unlike my leap from Sonnet 3 to Sonnet 18, my small hop from Sonnet 19 to 21 has nothing to do with seeking variety. This time, it’s simply because I’m still puzzling my way through Sonnet 20. (Remember, these interpretations are entirely mine — I am not consulting other scholars before writing them, so if I get stuck on a particular sonnet, I remain stuck until I figure it out.)

This much I have gotten out of 20: if Sonnet 19 could potentially be read as a love poem from one man to another, Sonnet 20 appears to be far less ambiguous on that point. The speaker of Sonnet 20 is probably male, and the object of the poem is almost certainly so.

Having said that, for Sonnet 21 (which is yet another poem of adoration), I’m defaulting in my interpretation back to “male speaker adores female object.” Regardless of whether an individual agrees that Shakespeare had intimate relationships with other men, all Shakespeare scholars (as far as I’m aware) agree that he definitely had intimate relations with at least one woman in his lifetime. This is, therefore, the most likely scenario with any particular love poem, unless that poem contains definite clues to the contrary.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

Sonnet 21

So is it not with me as with that Muse,
Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,
Who heaven itself for ornament doth use
And every fair with his fair doth rehearse,
Making a couplement of proud compare’
With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,
With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare,
That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems.
O! let me, true in love, but truly write,
And then believe me, my love is as fair
As any mother’s child, though not so bright
As those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:
Let them say more that like of hearsay well;
I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

What I get out of it

Praising beauty?

Shakespeare opens Sonnet 21 by setting up a stereotypical “Muse,” or poet, inspired to write poetry by his “painted beauty.” This Muse’s poetry, Shakespeare imagines, would “proud[ly] compare” the object of such a love-song “with sun and moon,” “gems,” “flowers,” and all other “things” of “rare” beauty beneath “heaven’s air.” Such a poem, according to the Bard, would be recited by “every fair” lad to “his fair” lady (or vice-versa), as the flowery phrases would be worthy to be used by “heaven itself.”

Awww, how sweet.

Shakespeare (or the poetic speaker he creates) would not write such a poem. It is “not with me as with that Muse,” he points out; such a lovely bit of rhyme might be fine for another poet, but Shakespeare’s speaker has different ideas.

“Let me,” the speaker pleads, “truly write, […] my love is as fair as any mother’s child.” However, unlike the other, stereotypical poet’s affection, this love is not meant to shine “so bright” as the stars “fix’d in heaven’s air,” for all to see. Allow more flamboyant poets to “say more” about their loves if they wish, but Shakespeare’s speaker “will not praise” so extravagantly a lady whom he “purpose[s] not to sell.”

Is it relevant?

Yes. As a high school teacher I work, on a daily basis, with children convinced that their current boyfriends or girlfriends are the most wonderful people on Earth. Some of these kids, bless them, occasionally write a bit of love poetry to their beloveds.

Some of them want to show me, their always-supportive literature teacher, the poetic masterpieces they’ve created.

*sigh*

Usually the best I can manage is a smile and a nod and a “very nice.” Phrases like “eyes like the sun/moon/stars” or “hair like a golden waterfall” tend to figure prominently. (Ok, the waterfall one is my own work, written in the early stages of dating the woman I married three weeks ago. Shameful, ain’t it?)

If any of these lovestruck teens continue to pursue their poetic aspirations, I know (or hope) that they will discover the horror that lies within cliché, the stickiness of excessive sweetness, and the ultimate commercial failure of the “roses are red” genre of verse. Shakespeare’s poetry has survived for so long in part because he rejected and satirized that approach to writing love songs. In Sonnet 130 (“My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun”) and related poems, Shakespeare’s wit utterly destroys the stereotypical poetry described here in Sonnet 21… which makes 130 one of his best-known and most-loved poems even now, four centuries later.

…The “hair like a golden waterfall” bit wasn’t that bad, was it? Was it?

To keep thee from the evil woman, from the flattery of the tongue of a strange woman.

Lust not after her beauty in thine heart; neither let her take thee with her eyelids.
– Proverbs 6:24-25

(Photo credit and license)

We could ask him, but...

What a week this has been… “devouring time” has indeed seemed to feast on the hours and minutes of the last seven days.  So, here we are once again with Shakespeare Saturday.

One constant source of heated debate and controversy regarding Shakespeare is speculation about his love life.  It is known that he was married, probably to legitimize his bride’s pregnancy (their first child was born about six months after vows were exchanged).  He probably also took another woman as mistress for some time later in his life.

Some of Shakespeare’s poetry suggests an additional liaison.  Many modern readers and critics believe that the Bard had a romantic relationship with another male, and Sonnet 19 is one of a number of sonnets which apparently indicate this.  Another school of thought argues that Shakespeare may merely have been expressing strong but friendly affection; another argues that the sonnets’ speaker (their “I” and “me”) might not represent Shakespeare himself; yet another leans toward the familial-love interpretation I briefly mentioned when I discussed Sonnet 18.  As any one person’s opinion is potentially as well-founded as any other, given the few clues available, I invite you to decide for yourself as you read:

Sonnet 19

Devouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,
And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;
Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,
And burn the long-liv’d phoenix, in her blood;
Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,
And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,
To the wide world and all her fading sweets;
But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:
O! carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,
Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;
Him in thy course untainted do allow
For beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.
    Yet, do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
    My love shall in my verse ever live young.

What I get out of it

The God of Passing Time

Shakespeare’s poetic speaker addresses him- (or her-) self to an animated and malicious “Time.”  Time works destruction on everything in the universe.  It “blunt[s] the lion’s paws” and “pluck[s] the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,” rendering these fearsome predators ineffective in their old age.  It brings an end even to the ever-renewing life of the “phoenix.”  It forces the “sweet brood” of living creatures to be devoured by — figuratively, buried in –”the earth” that spawned them.  The seasons themselves are born (made “glad”) but then die (make “sorry”) as Time touches them.

Shakespeare’s speaker acknowledges this and accepts it — but one act is unacceptable and unforgivable.  Time must not ever commit the “heinous crime” of bringing age and ruin to the young man about whom the poem is written.  Fearing that Time will “carve” wrinkles into ”my love’s fair brow,” the poem’s speaker pleads for Time’s mercy.  “Draw no lines,” the speaker begs, in the young man’s face; ”allow” his “untainted” beauty to be appreciated by others.

The sonnet’s closing couplet, however, turns defiant.  “Do thy worst,” the speaker sneers, “my love shall in my verse ever live young.”  As with Sonnet 18, the poem is a memorial, a way for the poem’s object to live eternally young and attractive, thanks to the poet’s homage.

Is it relevant?

The short answer is, “yes.”  The long answer depends on your decision regarding Shakespeare’s intentions when writing this sonnet.

If Shakespeare is writing this to a romantic interest (either a real one, or an imagined interest of the poem’s speaker), the relevance lies in the fact that we always want our lovers (and ourselves) to remain as young, fit, and attractive as they were when first we met them (even though age may not lessen the love or desire).

If Shakespeare is writing this to a close friend, he may be empathizing with the young man’s fears of growing old, either because Shakespeare shared those fears or had already realized them.

Finally, if Shakespeare writes Sonnet 19 to his son or another relative, he may simply be echoing every father’s desire for his young descendants to remain children forever.

For honourable age is not that which standeth in length of time, nor that is measured by number of years.  But wisdom is the gray hair unto men, and an unspotted life is old age. — Wisdom of Solomon 4:8-9

(Grave: Photo Credit and License; Statue: Public Domain)

First Edition

A friend gave me a book of Shakespeare’s Sonnets as a wedding gift last week (along with books of poetry by two of my other favorites, T.S. Eliot and Langston Hughes).  Gifts that are both thoughtful and personal are quite difficult for me to pick out… so I try to always give kudos when someone else gives me one.  Thanks!

After discussing the repetitive themes of Sonnets 1-3, I decided to skip ahead a bit.  My good friend, a Mr. Wiki Pedia, informs me that the first 17 or so sonnets share a common message… so, in my search for variety, I hereby skip to:

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,
    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

What I get out of it

(more…)