1 A study of the sonnet form in English poetry.
In this unit we will find out about:
• Petrarch and Petrarchan sonnets
• Elizabethans and Elizabethan sonnets
• Shakespeare and Shakespearean sonnets
• Modern sonnets and the future of the sonnet
Along the way we will:
• do a great deal of vocabulary extension
• learn some interesting terms such as “octave”, “sestet” and “iambic pentameter”
• improve our understanding of tone and how tone is created
• explore the use of imagery, rhythm and rhyme, among other techniques
• read some bloody good sonnets
• maybe write our own sonnets
Here’s your first task . . .
watch this short video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lsggGffBQho
and complete these statements:
1.
2.
3.
4.
The sonnet originated in the country of
“Sonnet” means
.
The two types of sonnet are the Petrarchan and the
.
The Petrarchan (or Italian) sonnet is made up of two main parts. These are
known as the
, with
lines and the
,
with
lines.
5. The Shakespearean sonnet is a little different. It is made up of four sections.
These are:
Now that you are an expert on sonnets, read these two poems and say which is
Petrarchan and which is Shakespearean. (For a quick summary of the characterisitcs
of Petrarchan and Shakespearean sonnets, see this Wikipedia page:
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Petrarch%27s_and_Shakespeare%27s_Sonnets )
Death be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so, For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow, Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery. Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy, or charms can make us sleep as well, And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die. My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
2 A selection of sonnets
When reading each of these sonnets you should ask the following questions:
1. How does the sonnet conform to or differ from the traditional sonnet form?
2. What is the tone of the sonnet? Which words create that tone? Does the tone
change?
3. What ideas does the poem convey?
4. Which literary techniques help to convey those ideas?
William Shakespeare (1564 – 1616)
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 oft' 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 wanderest 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. – William Shakespeare
John Donne
(1572 – 1631)
Holy Sonnet XIV: Batter my heart, three-person'd God
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
Holy Sonnet X: Death, be not proud
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell;
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
William Wordsworth
(1770 – 1850)
Composed upon Westminster Bridge, September ,
Earth has not anything to show more fair:
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty:
This City now doth, like a garment, wear
The beauty of the morning; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open unto the fields, and to the sky;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.
Never did sun more beautifully steep
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill;
Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep;
And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Surprised by Joy
Surprised by joy -impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? - That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
Wilfred Owen
(1893 – 1918)
Anthem for Doomed Youth
What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?
Only the monstrous anger of the guns.
Only the stuttering rifles' rapid rattle
Can patter out their hasty orisons.
No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells,
Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs,-The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;
And bugles calling for them from sad shires.
What candles may be held to speed them all?
3 4 Not in the hands of boys, but in their eyes
Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.
The pallor of girls' brows shall be their pall;
Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,
And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)
Ozymandias
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said -- "two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lips, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings,
Look on my Works ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away."
W. H. Auden
Who’s Who
(1907 – 1973)
A shilling life will give you all the facts:
How Father beat him, how he ran away,
What were the struggles of his youth, what acts
Made him the greatest figure of his day;
Of how he fought, fished, hunted, worked all night,
Though giddy, climbed new mountains; named a sea;
Some of the last researchers even write
Love made him weep his pints like you and me.
With all his honours on, he sighed for one
Who, say astonished critics, lived at home;
Did little jobs about the house with skill
And nothing else; could whistle; would sit still
Or potter round the garden; answered some
Of his long marvellous letters but kept none.
Thomas Shapcott (1935 Skin Diver
Fisherman beware, the ocean cool
as morning music and as light as stars
hides other things than day and flatteries:
That is no welcome in the plunging pool
where you stand poised, there is no peace at all
to fill you here, the water stretches far
past breathing in those shadows. Grasp the air
you know that comforts and commends your skill!
It is a strange necessity to dive
beyond land, to seek
5 among strangers where your nakedness is weak
and graceless. Well, go. What it is to live
and nothing taunts your nerves?
Like broken sound
the sun fails in those deeps that you have found.
Louis MacNeice
Sunday Morning
(1907 – 1963)
Down the road someone is practising scales,
The notes like little fishes vanish with a wink of tails,
Man's heart expands to tinker with his car
For this is Sunday morning, Fate's great bazaar;
Regard these means as ends, concentrate on this Now,
And you may grow to music or drive beyond Hindhead anyhow,
Take corners on two wheels until you go so fast
That you can clutch a fringe or two of the windy past,
That you can abstract this day and make it to the week of time
A small eternity, a sonnet self-contained in rhyme.
But listen, up the road, something gulps, the church spire
Open its eight bells out, skulls' mouths which will not tire
To tell how there is no music or movement which secures
Escape from the weekday time. Which deadens and endures.
Douglas Stewart
Leopard Skin
(1913 – 1985)
Seven pairs of leopard-skin underpants
Flying on the rotary clothes-line! Oh, look, look, virgins,
How with the shirts and pyjamas they whirl and dance.
And think no more, trembling in your own emergence
Like butterflies into the light, that tall soft boy
Who nightly over his radio crooned and capered
Alone in his room in weird adolescent joy
Is mother’s boy, softly: has he not slain a leopard?
But more than that: does he not wear its skin,
Secretly, daily, superbly? Oh, girls, adore him,
For dreaming on velvet feet to slay and to sin
He prowls the suburb, the wild things flee before him.
He miaous at the leopardesses, and they stop:
He is a leopard – he bought himself in a shop.
Edna St. Vincent Millay (1892 – 1950)
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why (Sonnet XLIII)
What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,
I have forgotten, and what arms have lain
Under my head till morning; but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain
For unremembered lads that not again
Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.
6 Thus in winter stands the lonely tree,
Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,
Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:
I cannot say what loves have come and gone,
I only know that summer sang in me
A little while, that in me sings no more.
Elizabeth Bishop (1911 – 1979)
Sonnet (1928)
I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow!
There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
Robert Lowell (1917 – 1977)
History
History has to live with what was here, clutching and close to fumbling all we had— it is so dull and gruesome how we die, unlike writing, life never finishes. Abel was finished; death is not remote, a flash-­‐in-­‐the-­‐pan electrifies the skeptic, his cows crowding like skulls against high-­‐voltage wire, his baby crying all night like a new machine. As in our Bibles, white-­‐faced, predatory, the beautiful, mist-­‐drunken hunter's moon ascends— a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes, my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-­‐nose— O there's a terrifying innocence in my face drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost. Sylvia Plath (1932 – 1963)
Cinderella
The prince leans to the girl in scarlet heels, Her green eyes slant, hair flaring in a fan Of silver as the rondo slows; now reels Begin on tilted violins to span The whole revolving tall glass palace hall Where guests slide gliding into light like wine; Rose candles flicker on the lilac wall Reflecting in a million flagons' shine, 7 And glided couples all in whirling trance Follow holiday revel begun long since, Until near twelve the strange girl all at once Guilt-­‐stricken halts, pales, clings to the prince As amid the hectic music and cocktail talk She hears the caustic ticking of the clock. Ennui
Tea leaves thwart those who court catastrophe,
designing futures where nothing will occur:
cross the gypsy’s palm and yawning she
will still predict no perils left to conquer.
Jeopardy is jejune now: naïve knight
finds ogres out-of-date and dragons unheard
of, while blasé princesses indict
tilts at terror as downright absurd.
The beast in Jamesian grove will never jump,
compelling hero’s dull career to crisis;
and when insouciant angels play God’s trump,
while bored arena crowds for once look eager,
hoping toward havoc, neither pleas nor prizes
shall coax from doom’s blank door lady or tiger.
e.e. cummings (1894 – 1962)
a wind has blown the rain away and blown the sky away and all the leaves away, and the trees stand. I think i too have known autumn too long (and what have you to say, wind wind wind -­‐-­‐ did you love somebody and have you the petal of somewhere in your heart pinched from dumb summer? O crazy daddy of death dance cruelly for us and start the last leaf whirling in the final brain of air!) Let us as we have seen see doom's integration . . . . . . . . . a wind has blown the rain away and the leaves and the sky and the trees stand: the trees stand. The trees, suddenly wait against the moon's face. Robert Frost (1874 – 1963)
Once by the Pacific
The shattered water made a misty din.
Great waves looked over others coming in,
And thought of doing something to the shore
That water never did to land before.
The clouds were low and hairy in the skies,
Like locks blown forward in the gleam of eyes.
You could not tell, and yet it looked as if
The shore was lucky in being backed by cliff,
The cliff in being backed by continent.
It looked a if a night of dark intent
Was coming, and not only a night, an age.
Someone had better be prepared for rage.
There would be more than ocean-water broken
Before God’s last Put out the Light was spoken. 8