Friday!

Starting the weekend with a prayer  J

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Adam Armour's Prayer

By Robert Burns

Gude pity me, because I'm little!

For though I am an elf o' mettle,

An' can, like ony wabster's shuttle,

Jink there or here,

Yet, scarce as lang's a gude kail-whittle,

I'm unco queer.

An' now Thou kens our waefu' case;

For Geordie's jurr we're in disgrace,

Because we stang'd her through the place,

An' hurt her spleuchan;

For whilk we daurna show our face

Within the clachan.

An' now we're dern'd in dens and hollows,

And hunted, as was William Wallace,

Wi' constables-thae blackguard fallows,

An' sodgers baith;

But Gude preserve us frae the gallows,

That shamefu' death!

Auld grim black-bearded Geordie's sel'-

O shake him owre the mouth o' hell!

There let him hing, an' roar, an' yell

Wi' hideous din,

And if he offers to rebel,

Then heave him in.

When Death comes in wi' glimmerin blink,

An' tips auld drucken Nanse the wink,

May Sautan gie her doup a clink

Within his yett,

An' fill her up wi' brimstone drink,

Red-reekin het.

Though Jock an' hav'rel Jean are merry-

Some devil seize them in a hurry,

An' waft them in th' infernal wherry

Straught through the lake,

An' gie their hides a noble curry

Wi' oil of aik!

As for the jurr-puir worthless body!

She's got mischief enough already;

Wi' stanged hips, and buttocks bluidy

She's suffer'd sair;

But, may she wintle in a woody,

If she wh-e mair!

On birth (after the one on death)

To contrast with the epitaph poem from yesterday, a poem to commemorate a birth:

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A Poet's Welcome To His Love-Begotten Daughter

By Robert Burns

Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,

If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mamie,

Shall ever daunton me or awe me,

My bonie lady,

Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me

Tyta or daddie.

Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,

An' tease my name in kintry clatter,

The mair they talk, I'm kent the better,

E'en let them clash;

An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter

To gie ane fash.

Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,

Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,

And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,

Baith kirk and queir;

Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,

That I shall swear!

Wee image o' my bonie Betty,

As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,

As dear, and near my heart I set thee

Wi' as gude will

As a' the priests had seen me get thee

That's out o' hell.

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint,

My funny toil is now a' tint,

Sin' thou came to the warl' asklent,

Which fools may scoff at;

In my last plack thy part's be in't

The better ha'f o't.

Tho' I should be the waur bestead,

Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,

And thy young years as nicely bred

Wi' education,

As ony brat o' wedlock's bed,

In a' thy station.

Lord grant that thou may aye inherit

Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,

An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,

Without his failins,

'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,

Than stockit mailens.

For if thou be what I wad hae thee,

And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,

I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee,

The cost nor shame o't,

But be a loving father to thee,

And brag the name o't.

Reading Robert Burns now :)

Okay, so I’m done with the project  J  For the next few weeks, I’m going to post, each day, a poem by Robert Burns written in the Burns stanza.  Hoping to get used to this stanza form  J

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A Bard’s Epitaph

By Robert Burns

Is there a whim-inspired fool,

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule,

Owre blate to seek, owre proud to snool,

Let him draw near;

And owre this grassy heap sing dool,

And drap a tear.

Is there a bard of rustic song,

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among,

That weekly this area throng,

O, pass not by!

But, with a frater-feeling strong,

Here, heave a sigh.

Is there a man, whose judgment clear

Can others teach the course to steer,

Yet runs, himself, life's mad career,

Wild as the wave,

Here pause-and, thro' the starting tear,

Survey this grave.

The poor inhabitant below

Was quick to learn the wise to know,

And keenly felt the friendly glow,

And softer flame;

But thoughtless follies laid him low,

And stain'd his name!

Reader, attend! whether thy soul

Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole,

Or darkling grubs this earthly hole,

In low pursuit:

Know, prudent, cautious, self-control

Is wisdom's root.

Volta project: fertig :)

Today, the last poem in the book:

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CLIV

  The little Love-god lying once asleep,

  Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,

  Whilst many nymphs that vow'd chaste life to keep

  Came tripping by; but in her maiden hand

  The fairest votary took up that fire

  Which many legions of true hearts had warm'd;

  And so the general of hot desire

  Was, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm'd.

  This brand she quenched in a cool well by,

  Which from Love's fire took heat perpetual,

  Growing a bath and healthful remedy,

  For men diseas'd; but I, my mistress' thrall,

    Came there for cure and this by that I prove,

    Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

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Continuing the mythology from yesterday’s sonnet  J  The volta’s the but in the antepenultimate line, and I’ll have to be blogging something different tomorrow.

His mistress' eyes

Penultimate sonnet!—

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CLIII

  Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:

  A maid of Dian's this advantage found,

  And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep

  In a cold valley-fountain of that ground;

  Which borrow'd from this holy fire of Love,

  A dateless lively heat, still to endure,

  And grew a seeting bath, which yet men prove

  Against strange maladies a sovereign cure.

  But at my mistress' eye Love's brand new-fired,

  The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;

  I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,

  And thither hied, a sad distemper'd guest,

    But found no cure, the bath for my help lies

    Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.

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Once again, a volta in the Petrarchan position and another volta in the Shakespearean position, both marked by the same word but; also, the second one would be the main volta, and the point of the poem would be the last three words.  What’s new is the development of a backstory with mythological underpinnings in the first two quatrains, thereby elevating the Dark Lady to mythological dimensions when she is connected to the back story in the third quatrain and the closing couplet.  Tomorrow, the last sonnet in the book …

Still alive

Survived the drive.  Today’s sonnet:

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CLII

  In loving thee thou know'st I am forsworn,

  But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;

  In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,

  In vowing new hate after new love bearing:

  But why of two oaths' breach do I accuse thee,

  When I break twenty? I am perjur'd most;

  For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,

  And all my honest faith in thee is lost:

  For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,

  Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;

  And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,

  Or made them swear against the thing they see;

    For I have sworn thee fair; more perjur'd I,

    To swear against the truth so foul a lie!

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Once again, he’s able to repeat words as often as he wants, and it ends up being wordplay instead of being tortured and/or awkward.  The for in the Petrarchan position and the for in the Shakespearean position are both voltas, but the second one might be the main volta.  In this sonnet, a dark mood for the Dark Lady  J  More tomorrow.

Final weekend :(

Another winter storm last night  L  and I experienced this one, too, am eigenen Leib (on my drive to Ann Arbor and back).  Here’s to hoping that tomorrow’s drive (dropping off my daughter) is easier …  Today’s sonnet:

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CLI

  Love is too young to know what conscience is,

  Yet who knows not conscience is born of love?

  Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,

  Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:

  For, thou betraying me, I do betray

  My nobler part to my gross body's treason;

  My soul doth tell my body that he may

  Triumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,

  But rising at thy name doth point out thee,

  As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,

  He is contented thy poor drudge to be,

  To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.

    No want of conscience hold it that I call

    Her 'love,' for whose dear love I rise and fall.

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The yet at the beginning of line 2, the lest at the beginning of line 4, the for at the beginning of line 5, the but in the Petrarchan position are turns.  The main volta is the no in the Shakespearean position, and the poem is heavy enough (especially with all that enhambement and the cæsuræ) that Shakespeare repeats the word conscience in the closing couplet in order to connect back to lines 1–2.  Another one tomorrow (if I return alive from my drive).

#150

Driving (in this weather!) to Ann Arbor to pick up my daughter.  Today’s sonnet:

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CL

  O! from what power hast thou this powerful might,

  With insufficiency my heart to sway?

  To make me give the lie to my true sight,

  And swear that brightness doth not grace the day?

  Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,

  That in the very refuse of thy deeds

  There is such strength and warrantise of skill,

  That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?

  Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,

  The more I hear and see just cause of hate?

  O! though I love what others do abhor,

  With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:

    If thy unworthiness rais'd love in me,

    More worthy I to be belov'd of thee.

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Antonym pairs again, which—again  J—work as turns, simply by being antonym pairs.  One in the first quatrain (lie/true), one in the second quatrain (worst/best), and one in lines 9–10 (love/hate).  Followed by the volta marker though in the next line, but I think the main volta would be the if in the Shakespearean position.

Volta project, #149

Today’s sonnet:

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CXLIX

  Canst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,

  When I against myself with thee partake?

  Do I not think on thee, when I forgot

  Am of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake?

  Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,

  On whom frown'st thou that I do fawn upon,

  Nay, if thou lour'st on me, do I not spend

  Revenge upon myself with present moan?

  What merit do I in my self respect,

  That is so proud thy service to despise,

  When all my best doth worship thy defect,

  Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?

    But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;

    Those that can see thou lov'st, and I am blind.

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The volta’s the but in the Shakespearean position.  More tomorrow (provided I live).

Blogging very late today

It’s almost eight in the afternoon that I’m finally blogging today.  After all these months of never missing a day, I can’t imagine skipping the blog in the last week of the Project, but that’s the kind of schedule I ended up with for the semester … and this on a Wednesday!  At any rate, today’s sonnet:

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CXLVIII

  O me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,

  Which have no correspondence with true sight;

  Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,

  That censures falsely what they see aright?

  If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,

  What means the world to say it is not so?

  If it be not, then love doth well denote

  Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,

  How can it? O! how can Love's eye be true,

  That is so vexed with watching and with tears?

  No marvel then, though I mistake my view;

  The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.

    O cunning Love! with tears thou keep'st me blind,

    Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

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What first catches my eye is the no at the end of line 8  J  and that’s a turn, as is the O! in the following line and the though in line 11 … but the main volta is the lest at the beginning of the final line.  What a beauty of a poem  J  The one-line metaphor (line 12) does so many things!  More tomorrow (I hope).

Just one week left :(

Today’s sonnet:

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CXLVII

  My love is as a fever longing still,

  For that which longer nurseth the disease;

  Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,

  The uncertain sickly appetite to please.

  My reason, the physician to my love,

  Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,

  Hath left me, and I desperate now approve

  Desire is death, which physic did except.

  Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,

  And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;

  My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are,

  At random from the truth vainly express'd;

    For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

    Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

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Nice well-developed extended metaphor.  The volta’s the for at the beginning of the closing couplet.  Another seven sonnets left ...  Tomorrow, the next one.

On the inheritance of worms

Dark sonnet from the Dark Lady cycle on dark afternoon:

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CXLVI

  Poor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,

  My sinful earth these rebel powers array,

  Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,

  Painting thy outward walls so costly gay?

  Why so large cost, having so short a lease,

  Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend?

  Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,

  Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body's end?

  Then soul, live thou upon thy servant's loss,

  And let that pine to aggravate thy store;

  Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;

  Within be fed, without be rich no more:

    So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,

    And Death once dead, there's no more dying then.

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Bright point:  Three whole quatrains of non-falsifiable speech to start the sonnet.  Line 7 would be the highlight  J  A volta at the Petrarchan position:  The then at the beginning of the third quatrain introduces the imperative.  Another volta at the Shakespearean position:  The so at the beginning of the closing couplet introduces the justification for the imperative.  Another sonnet:  Tomorrow.

Volta project, part 145

Can’t believe the weekend’s already over  L 

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CXLV

  Those lips that Love's own hand did make,

  Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate',

  To me that languish'd for her sake:

  But when she saw my woeful state,

  Straight in her heart did mercy come,

  Chiding that tongue that ever sweet

  Was us'd in giving gentle doom;

  And taught it thus anew to greet;

  'I hate' she alter'd with an end,

  That followed it as gentle day,

  Doth follow night, who like a fiend

  From heaven to hell is flown away.

    'I hate', from hate away she threw,

    And sav'd my life, saying 'not you'.

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Okay, an exceptionally early volta:  It’s the but at the beginning of line 4.  That’s partly compensated by delaying the rest of the direct speech to the last two words of the poem.

#144

Busy, busy first weekend of semester  L  Today’s sonnet:

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CXLIV

  Two loves I have of comfort and despair,

  Which like two spirits do suggest me still:

  The better angel is a man right fair,

  The worser spirit a woman colour'd ill.

  To win me soon to hell, my female evil,

  Tempteth my better angel from my side,

  And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,

  Wooing his purity with her foul pride.

  And whether that my angel be turn'd fiend,

  Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;

  But being both from me, both to each friend,

  I guess one angel in another's hell:

    Yet this shall I ne'er know, but live in doubt,

    Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

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Voltas:  The but at the beginning of line 11 and the yet in the Shakespearean position (this second one would be the main volta). 

Rushing towards the weekend :)

Blogging before I drive to Ann Arbor to get my daughter for the weekend  J

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CXLIII

  Lo, as a careful housewife runs to catch

  One of her feather'd creatures broke away,

  Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatch

  In pursuit of the thing she would have stay;

  Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,

  Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent

  To follow that which flies before her face,

  Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;

  So runn'st thou after that which flies from thee,

  Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;

  But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,

  And play the mother's part, kiss me, be kind;

    So will I pray that thou mayst have thy 'Will,'

    If thou turn back and my loud crying still.

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Great detailed extended simile, but I don’t completely understand why it isn’t as pleasing as most of his other similes.  The turns would be:  whilst at the beginning of the second quatrain, not at the beginning of line 8, so in the Petrarchan position (moving to complete the simile) and whilst at the beginning of line 10, but at the beginning of the following line (this one would be the main volta), so in the Shakespearean position, and if at the beginning of the final line.  More tomorrow.

#142

Difficult first week  L  I hope the semester becomes easier as it progresses!  Today’s sonnet:

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CXLII

  Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

  Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:

  O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,

  And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;

  Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,

  That have profan'd their scarlet ornaments

  And seal'd false bonds of love as oft as mine,

  Robb'd others' beds' revenues of their rents.

  Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov'st those

  Whom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:

  Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,

  Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.

    If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,

    By self-example mayst thou be denied!

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The O! but at the beginning of line 3 and the not in line 5.  The main volta is the if in the Shakespearean position.  More tomorrow.

In despite of view :)

Today, one of the most famous poems in the book  J

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CXLI

  In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,

  For they in thee a thousand errors note;

  But 'tis my heart that loves what they despise,

  Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.

  Nor are mine ears with thy tongue's tune delighted;

  Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,

  Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited

  To any sensual feast with thee alone:

  But my five wits nor my five senses can

  Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,

  Who leaves unsway'd the likeness of a man,

  Thy proud heart's slave and vassal wretch to be:

    Only my plague thus far I count my gain,

    That she that makes me sin awards me pain.

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Turns in this one:  The but at the beginning of line 3, the but in the Petrarchan position, and the only in the Shakespearean position.  Lines 5–12 are really a (lengthier) restatement of the first quatrain, but don’t sound repetitive, and that is already a magic trick.  More tomorrow.

Tuesdays

Had back to back classes during 9:15 a.m.–5:55 p.m., will be in class again at 9 a.m. tomorrow.  All of which, ofcourse, helps me stay indoors, warm and out of the winter’s way.  Today’s sonnet:

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CXL

  Be wise as thou art cruel; do not press

  My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;

  Lest sorrow lend me words, and words express

  The manner of my pity-wanting pain.

  If I might teach thee wit, better it were,

  Though not to love, yet, love to tell me so;--

  As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,

  No news but health from their physicians know;--

  For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,

  And in my madness might speak ill of thee;

  Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,

  Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.

    That I may not be so, nor thou belied,

    Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide.

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The lest at the beginning of line 3, the yet in line 6, the though in the final line.  Beautiful simile in lines 7–8, and a beautiful poem overall.  I wish I had enough energy left today to appreciate it better  L  More tomorrow.