Today's exam was easy, so I regret having spent so much time studying it (remembering the names and the years was so difficult), since now I don't have much time left for English Poetry (just a few hours).
I feel so lonely and asocial that I wanted to share some of the stuff I have to study for tomorrow.
First, Petrarca was a masochist.
Second, poetry equals porn.
Third, Marlowe and Shakespeare were gay.
And I come with proof...
Let's see, this may be entertaining... for people who don't know Shakespeare's Sonnets, this is Sonnet 15:
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and cheque'd even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with Decay,
To change your day of youth to sullied night;
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
So, what a beautiful and philosophical poem about mankind and time.
But then the teacher said: "OK, I'm gonna read it again, but I want you to have the image of an erection in your mind"
I mean, WTH? Don't say that so suddenly and so early in the morning. I could have died.
I will never forget that intonation in "every THING that GROWS", and oh, that "I engraft you new" made me headdesk in the middle of class.
But that class didn't finish then. We read the most famous Sonnet then, which is 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 owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this and this gives life to thee.
OK, well, there's some "growest" there but I may be imagining things. This is such a famous poem because it's a love poem that does not have gender. So, of course, this means it's a poem about love and poetry at the same time.
OK, that's fine... But then, when we were calm and alive again.... We got to.... Sonnet 20:
A woman's face with Nature's own hand painted
Hast thou, the master-mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion;
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue, all 'hues' in his controlling,
Much steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.
And for a woman wert thou first created;
Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,
And by addition me of thee defeated,
By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.
But since she prick'd thee out for women's pleasure,
Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.
This one actually made me quite happy. Though the teacher said that this was the most hated and ommited Sonnet.
Ah, well, I guess this makes Shakespeare a seme :D
Of course, the Fair Youth had to be an uke, right? xD
Ahh~~ I was happy, then... So why did the class have to finish with...
That time of year thou mayst in me behold
When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang
Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
Bare ruin'd choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
In me thou seest the twilight of such day
As after sunset fadeth in the west,
Which by and by black night doth take away,
Death's second self, that seals up all in rest.
In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire
That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
As the death-bed whereon it must expire
Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.
This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.
Such a beautiful poem about autumn and death.... Why? Why?
"OK, you remember Sonnet 15, right? If that was a young man's erection, now let's read it thinking about an old man's one"
Oh, no, I'd rather not, please.
But oh, well, the damage is done anyway.
You can't imagine. We were brain-dead after that class.
Too much imagination, indeed.
Ahh, I wonder if you english speakers learnt Shakespeare's Sonnets this way at school...
Btw, I've changed both my journal and my profile layouts.
Hope you like the new ones!