The full texts of five Shakespearean
sonnets written at Christmas 2008
by readers of Other Men's Flowers
with comments by the Onlie Begetter
Untitled 1
This labour doth me exercise nor might
Requite the knotted brow and tott'ring sway
Ere knitted vein with horrid cross-eyed sight
Espies the moon-wracked dream benight the day.
Alas! The steelwork's din doth make me ill
Retired beneath the Pittsburg dome, my deeds
Forgot in clash of pans, all erstwhile skill
Lies slain. No doddle see: yon task exceeds
My grasp in dreadful measure. Toil no more
Thou valiant brain, but rest? Thou shoulds't not hate
Alzheimer's skull, for Nature doth abhor
A vacu'm. Fill thy globe to re-instate
It tome by tome, nor drum thy thumbs at me;
I happen to know that the pseudonym conceals the identity of a Pennsylvania flange-grinder recently retired after forty years work for US Steel. In this elegant and moving sonnet the poet has cleverly inserted references to the darker side of flange-grinding.
Requite the knotted brow and tott'ring sway
Ere knitted vein with horrid cross-eyed sight
Espies the moon-wracked dream benight the day.
Alas! The steelwork's din doth make me ill
Retired beneath the Pittsburg dome, my deeds
Forgot in clash of pans, all erstwhile skill
Lies slain. No doddle see: yon task exceeds
My grasp in dreadful measure. Toil no more
Thou valiant brain, but rest? Thou shoulds't not hate
Alzheimer's skull, for Nature doth abhor
A vacu'm. Fill thy globe to re-instate
It tome by tome, nor drum thy thumbs at me;
Nor yet lament: it ends in peace for thee.
Elizabeth
I happen to know that the pseudonym conceals the identity of a Pennsylvania flange-grinder recently retired after forty years work for US Steel. In this elegant and moving sonnet the poet has cleverly inserted references to the darker side of flange-grinding.
Untitled 2
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 raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
I cannot imagine why this person bothered to submit such a feeble effort. It is dull, muddled and clumsy, without a trace of charm or originality; he (or she) should give up trying to write poetry and start a career in accountancy, or plumbing.
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 raised love in me,
More worthy I to be beloved of thee.
Anonymous
I cannot imagine why this person bothered to submit such a feeble effort. It is dull, muddled and clumsy, without a trace of charm or originality; he (or she) should give up trying to write poetry and start a career in accountancy, or plumbing.
Untitled 3
In darkness and in wrothful might
Over our minds thou dost hold sway:
Thou art indeed a fear-full sight
Thy dark’ning soul obscures the day.
We ken well that you wish us ill,
And harsh and lordly art thy deeds,
Nor can we earn by art or skill
Thy grace: thy malice far exceeds
What we can bear, yet ever more
We crave the haven of your hate
And shun the light thou doth abhor
For Suffering, Thy holy state:
Tear every shred of joy from me,
My pain a sacrifice to thee.
I am not absolutely sure that Shakespeare would have used ken in the sense that survives only in Scottish dialect, but this is a smooth and unemphatic sonnet, with no straining after effect and some telling imagery. Derivative in places, but well done, considering that the poet allegedly composed it while on a bed of pain.
Over our minds thou dost hold sway:
Thou art indeed a fear-full sight
Thy dark’ning soul obscures the day.
We ken well that you wish us ill,
And harsh and lordly art thy deeds,
Nor can we earn by art or skill
Thy grace: thy malice far exceeds
What we can bear, yet ever more
We crave the haven of your hate
And shun the light thou doth abhor
For Suffering, Thy holy state:
Tear every shred of joy from me,
My pain a sacrifice to thee.
Outeast
I am not absolutely sure that Shakespeare would have used ken in the sense that survives only in Scottish dialect, but this is a smooth and unemphatic sonnet, with no straining after effect and some telling imagery. Derivative in places, but well done, considering that the poet allegedly composed it while on a bed of pain.
Untitled 4
To look on all whose love shall o'ercome might
Yet never feel the heat or suffer sway,
Is to behold a lover's gifted sight
And grasp the sun's new warmth at start of day.
Do you call to me, in tones as dark as ill?
For so I ne'er shall think of petty deeds
Whose want doth lack in men of newborn skill
And, making all, is twice when it exceeds.
We both shall fight, yet never utter more.
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
A cankerseed whose scent it shall abhor
Which, sensing this, brings peace to our new state.
You should not chill nor warm nor temper me,
Lest I may freeze and, freezing, burn not thee.
This sonnet was apparently created in the same way as the King James Bible, by a group of people working together, though in this case they were not “certain learned men … the best biblical scholars and linguists of their day”, but rather some of the habitués of Reginald’s Club in Frith Street, Soho, who took it in turns to compose a line; the eleventh and its neologism was by their doyen, Grumio himself. The result of their labours is not to be compared with the KJB—for one thing, it’s much shorter—but has a macabre charm of its own.
Yet never feel the heat or suffer sway,
Is to behold a lover's gifted sight
And grasp the sun's new warmth at start of day.
Do you call to me, in tones as dark as ill?
For so I ne'er shall think of petty deeds
Whose want doth lack in men of newborn skill
And, making all, is twice when it exceeds.
We both shall fight, yet never utter more.
Such civil war is in my love and hate,
A cankerseed whose scent it shall abhor
Which, sensing this, brings peace to our new state.
You should not chill nor warm nor temper me,
Lest I may freeze and, freezing, burn not thee.
Grumio et al.
This sonnet was apparently created in the same way as the King James Bible, by a group of people working together, though in this case they were not “certain learned men … the best biblical scholars and linguists of their day”, but rather some of the habitués of Reginald’s Club in Frith Street, Soho, who took it in turns to compose a line; the eleventh and its neologism was by their doyen, Grumio himself. The result of their labours is not to be compared with the KJB—for one thing, it’s much shorter—but has a macabre charm of its own.
Untitled 5
With roundly cry and Hecuba’s great might
Shall e’er mine eye be held unto thy sway.
Yet trippingly, and gaily in thy sight
I will not fade, lest night shall trump our day.
For never shall I speak or do thee ill
Or tremble at that pilgrim’s noble deeds
Who, knowing thee and ever wrought in skill,
Doth move to manners and your faith exceeds.
For aught shall pass and aught shall favour more
Than to a pilgrim’s lips when he doth hate.
And hard yet though he labour to abhor
His heart shall ever cleave unto this state.
Make thee another self for love of me,
So too shall e’er mine strength give heart to me.
This is a fine sonnet, tantalisingly obscure in parts but stylish withal, and redolent of tender yet hard-edged longing.
Shall e’er mine eye be held unto thy sway.
Yet trippingly, and gaily in thy sight
I will not fade, lest night shall trump our day.
For never shall I speak or do thee ill
Or tremble at that pilgrim’s noble deeds
Who, knowing thee and ever wrought in skill,
Doth move to manners and your faith exceeds.
For aught shall pass and aught shall favour more
Than to a pilgrim’s lips when he doth hate.
And hard yet though he labour to abhor
His heart shall ever cleave unto this state.
Make thee another self for love of me,
So too shall e’er mine strength give heart to me.
The Dark Lady
This is a fine sonnet, tantalisingly obscure in parts but stylish withal, and redolent of tender yet hard-edged longing.