Write a sonnet???


Libra Girl
#61
Quote: Originally Posted by #juanView Post

I love it. It was well worth the wait................

Thank you.
 
#juan
#62
Quote: Originally Posted by Libra GirlView Post

And it's still great yuan!

You mean I didn't make it worse...

Apparently I was the only one to use the Italian practice of two stanzas...one eight lines and the other six.

Your sonnet has inspired me. I'll try one more and take a bit more time at it......
 
Libra Girl
#63
Quote: Originally Posted by #juanView Post

You mean I didn't make it worse...

No! lol. I like the first anyway tho...
Quote: Originally Posted by yuan

Apparently I was the only one to use the Italian practice of two stanzas...one eight lines and the other six.

I didn't have a clue, I just tried hard to make everything rhyme...
Quote: Originally Posted by yuan

Your sonnet has inspired me. I'll try one more and take a bit more time at it......

Looking forward to reading it.
 
#juan
#64
This has always been one of my favourites. It is not a sonnet but it is entertaining.

His coy mistress by Andrew Marvell...1621 - 1678

Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, lady, were no crime.
We would sit down, and think which way
To walk, and pass our long love's day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges' side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain I would
Love you ten years before the flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews;
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, lady, you deserve this state;
Nor would I love at lower rate.

But at my back I always hear
Time's wingéd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor in thy marble vault shall sound
My echoing song; then worms shall try
That long preservéd virginity;
And you quaint honor turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave's a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.

Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapped power,
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Thorough the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
Last edited by #juan; Apr 22nd, 2007 at 10:38 PM..
 
Libra Girl
#65
While she was captive in the Tower of London and awaiting execution, Anne Boleyn wrote the following lines:

A captive, I in this dread Tower, scenes of childhood gaiety recall,

They comfort bring in this dark hour, now gaiety hath flown,

Through Blickling’s glades I fain would ride, soft green sward,

Sequested shade, no cruel intrigues to deride my simple rustic day.

A child, I watched the timid fawn, gentle eyed, steal to the lake

With thirst to quench when mists of dawn had from cool waters fled.

Strutting peacocks, shimmering blue, roseate arbour, scented walk

Gladly I left, ’tis strangely true, for pageantry at court.

False vanities my pride hath tricked, this place of damp and anguished stone

By sullen river surges licked, doth mock my hopeless lot

Oh, were I still a child in stature small

To tread the rose-lined paths of Blickling Hall.
 
tamarin
#66
" Oh, were I still a child in stature small

To tread the rose-lined paths of Blickling Hall."

Now, for those interested in sonnets, these two lines encapsulate perfectly what's expected of scan and presentation.
 
Libra Girl
#67
POETRY OF ELIZABETH I



Written with a diamond on her window at Woodstock


Much suspected by me,


Nothing proved can be,


Quoth Elizabeth prisoner.



Elizabeth's verses, while prisoner at Woodstock [Writ with charcoal on a shutter]


Oh, Fortune! how thy restlesse wavering state


Hath fraught with cares my troubled witt!


Witnes this present prisonn, whither fate


Could beare me, and the joys I quitt.


Thou causedest the guiltie to be losed


From bandes, wherein are innocents inclosed:


Causing the guiltles to be straite reserved,


And freeing those that death had well deserved.


But by her envie can be nothing wroughte,


So God send to my foes all they have thoughte.


signed - A. D. MDLV.


Elizabethe, Prisonner.



Written in her French psalter


No crooked leg, no bleared eye,


No part deformed out of kind,


Nor yet so ugly half can be


As is the inward suspicious mind.



A Sonnet by Queen Elizabeth


The doubt of future foes


Exiles my present joy;


And wit me warnes to shun such snares,


As threaten mine annoy.


For falshood now doth flow,


And subject faith doth ebbe;


Which would not be if reason rul'd,


Or wisdome wev'd the webbe.


But clowdes of toyes untried


Do cloake aspiring mindes;


Which turn to raine of late repent,


By course of changed windes.


The toppe of hope supposed


The roote of ruthe wil be;


And frutelesse all their graffed guiles,


As shortly ye shall see.


Then dazeld eyes with pride,


Which great ambition blindes,


Shal be unseeld by worthy wights,


Whose foresight falshood finds.


The daughter of debate,


That eke discord doth sowe,


Shal reape no gaine where former rule


Hath taught stil peace to growe.


No forreine bannisht wight


Shall ancre in this port;


Our realme it brookes no strangers force,


Let them elsewhere resort.


Our rusty sworde with rest


Shall first his edge employ,


Shall quickly poll their toppes, that seeke


Such change, and gape for joy.



On fortune


Never think you fortune can bear the sway


Where virtue's force can cause her to obey.



On monsieur's departure


I grieve and dare not show my discontent,


I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,


I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,


I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.


I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,


Since from myself another self I turned.


My care is like my shadow in the sun,


Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,


Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.


His too familiar care doth make me rue it.


No means I find to rid him from my breast,


Till by the end of things it be supprest.


Some gentler passion slide into my mind,


For I am soft and made of melting snow;


Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.


Let me or float or sink, be high or low.


Or let me live with some more sweet content,


Or die and so forget what love ere meant.
 
Libra Girl
#68
Sorry about that last post... haven't a clue why the spacing became so lengthy.


A sonnet by Elizabeth Tudor

Full many a glorious morning have I seen,
Flatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,
Kissing with golden face the meadows green;
Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy:
Anon permit the basest clouds to ride,
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all triumphant splendour on my brow,
But out alack, he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath masked him from me now.
Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth,
Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.


A sonnet by Francis Bacon

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.





 
#juan
#69
A sonnet by Francis Bacon

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb

Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

Bacon's work does have a certain Shakespearian ring to it. Is it possible that Will wrote it?
 
Libra Girl
#70
Quote: Originally Posted by #juanView Post

A sonnet by Francis Bacon

Look in thy glass, and tell the face thou viewest
Now is the time that face should form another;
Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,
Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother.
For where is she so fair whose unear'd womb
Disdains the tillage of thy husbandry?
Or who is he so fond will be the tomb
Of his self-love, to stop posterity?
Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
So thou through windows of thine age shall see
Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.
But if thou live, remember'd not to be,
Die single, and thine image dies with thee.

Bacon's work does have a certain Shakespearian ring to it. Is it possible that Will wrote it?

lol. Yes, it's highly possible that er... Bacon wrote it.



The other thing about the two sonnets is that they appear to be highly controversial in historical quarters... something that I was unaware of until today.
 
Libra Girl
#71
www.sirbacon.org/vonkunow.html (external - login to view)

Just one of the many links I have been reading. Intriguing.
 
#juan
#72
Quote: Originally Posted by Libra GirlView Post

www.sirbacon.org/vonkunow.html (external - login to view)

Just one of the many links I have been reading. Intriguing.

That is a mountain of information. I haven't read it all but I will.
 
Libra Girl
#73
Madonna Mia

A LILY-GIRL, not made for this world's pain,
With brown, soft hair close braided by her ears,
And longing eyes half veiled by slumberous tears
Like bluest water seen through mists of rain:
Pale cheeks whereon no love hath left its stain,
Red underlip drawn in for fear of love,
And white throat, whiter than the silvered dove,
Through whose wan marble creeps one purple vein.
Yet, though my lips shall praise her without cease,
Even to kiss her feet I am not bold,
Being o'ershadowed by the wings of awe.
Like Dante, when he stood with Beatrice
Beneath the flaming Lion's breast, and saw
The seventh Crystal, and the Stair of Gold.

Oscar Wilde.
 
tamarin
#74
Oscar's a good lad! And note the sovereign meter. Iambic pentameter. Thank goodness for the help of monsyllabic words that act as jokers to complete any union. Is form an extension of content or does one relentlessly lead the other? Who's to know. However, it does help to pay homage where it's due: I think, therefore I scan.
 
Nuggler
#75
Quote: Originally Posted by sanctusView Post

Thank you. Yes, poetry is my first love. Everytime something gets published it's kind of a secret delight for me. I have a small reputation in poetry circles, believe it or not!

Can you make enough money
With rhymes that are funny
To retire in Siberia
Or outer Liberia?

Can your jingles and sonnets
Put cash in your bonnet
To finance a move
To France, for the Louvre?

Or mayhaps to Spain
Where the rain on the plain
Falls merrily to him
With tome on the brain

Is it possible to be
Rich rich and free
By writing said words
Free as the birds

Sounding I am
Like Sam Sam I am
Hated them poems
So I'm gone on the lam

By: noSonnets'n'ugly.


I have no problem in believing your reputation is quite small. Fits right in with the Luddite religion.



Last edited by Nuggler; Apr 28th, 2007 at 06:19 AM..Reason: damn: i wasn't going to do this anymore.
 
tamarin
#76
" Or mayhaps to Spain
Where the rain on the plain
Falls merrily to him
With tome on the brain"

Now, there you're soaring, oldnugly!
 
Nuggler
#77
for thee i take up a many seated task
into the night go i for thee yes thee
a few shekels and plunder it is for me
to get and give but for thee alone to ask
to stand alone or lie with thee it is the same
upon the solid earth or on some far off main
to feel thy breath and know thou stands with me
'gainst cobras' strike or bite of scaly asp.


bla bla bla bla bla ..............


Welllllllllllllll kith my thkaly athp...............

We thor thorley, then fall to erth, to truk with turkeyths.................

Iambic what?? Five feet? In one line?

My feet are too big.

pomes suck. I too, gotta small reputation in the tomes of pomes community................

igernant'n'ugly
 

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