Literature, Quote of the Day

Paean To A Plain Woman, And a Few Recollections in Tranquility

rightwingknitjob

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 damasked, 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–William Shakespeare

I’ve always thought of this poem, Shakespeare’s Sonnet 130–one of the “Dark Lady” series—as vindication for the rest of us.  One for the ladies who’ve always smiled, then shrugged, at a thousand years of poetic conceits they can’t possibly delude themselves into believing apply to them.  One for those of us who grew up feeling pretty secure about our faces and our bodies, and whose parents told us we shouldn’t have to make up, dress, or pout like a Hollywood starlet in order to “catch” a man; and that if that’s what it took, such a man wasn’t worth catching, anyway.   One for those of us who were taught that life would take its course, that love would come one day, and that if we were kind and decent with each other, we’d happily and gracefully grow fat and decrepit  together.

One for those of us who, when we walk, “tread on the ground.” And know it.

This sonnet, and 153 others, were first published by Thomas Thorpe on May 20, 1609.  Today, only thirteen copies of the original run survive.  Although there’s been much speculation that the quarto was published without Shakespeare’s consent, the British Museum website (unfortunately, as of right now, March 2, 2024, that site is down, the splash page announcing that the Museum’s site suffered a cyberattack.  If it was still visible, you’d see it concludes that Shakespeare did agree to the edition, but that there may have been some issues with the manuscript which caused inconsistencies and deviations from his original words).

Here’s to love, and Dark Ladies,** everywhere.

I think these are my other two favorites. Sonnet 116:

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments; love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come.
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
And Sonnet 73.  This one resonates more with every passing day:
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 see’st 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,
Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.
This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,
To love that well which thou must leave ere long.

I had a rare moment of Shakespeare/Wordsworth understanding when the late Mr. Right and I visited Tintern Abbey in the early 2000s.  Clearly, Shakespeare is using metaphor to describe the gradual disintegration of the human form as old age takes its course, and I’ve always loved the line, “Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang,” understanding that the word “choirs” refers to a part of a church, and not a group of singers.

It, rather than Wordsworth’s much loved work, was the first bit of poetry that popped into my mind when I saw the Tintern Abbey ruin:

And I suddenly understood.  (Scholarly opinion is that Shakespeare was referring generally to the hundreds of monastic ruins in England occasioned by Henry VIII’s monasteries in the 1530s.  Tintern Abbey was one of them.)

The best thing about literature, as one of my favorite university professors (not even the one that I married) used to say, is that “it’s true.”

**The poet’s use of the word “reeks,” as applied to his beloved’s breath in Sonnet 130, may be a bridge too far.  Even for me.  Perhaps it’s a portent that, ultimately, things aren’t going to go so well for this unfortunate pair.  Still a good poem, though.

Published by rightwingknitjob

2 thoughts on “Paean To A Plain Woman, And a Few Recollections in Tranquility”

  1. A nice read. I wonder if Shakespeare ever contemplated that one day his work would be published on a website, but temporarily down because of a cyber attack 🤔

    Reply

    1. Good question. I do believe that there is much in literature which prefigures, and can be applied to, current circumstances. One of those things is what I call “Lady of Shalott Syndrome”–that which you can see on display just about everywhere these days, but especially at public events, in which almost no-one under the age of about 40 is actually watching what’s going on, live onstage, but almost all are gazing into their cell phones, watching pictures of reality unfold before their eyes. In the poem, the Lady is rudely introduced to, and actually has to confront the real world, and when she does so, she becomes depressed, disintegrates, and dies. My post on the subject (and a few other matters) is here: https://rightwingknitjob.com/2023/07/17/shadow-lands-and-cyber-worlds-2023/

      Sad.

      Will have to think about the cognate, as–or if–it applies to Shakespeare.

      Thanks!

      Reply

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