today's poems (no Will like a Warwickshire Will)
A double dose of poetry today, in honor of the observed 442nd birthday of William Shakespeare.
We'll begin with a bit of Miltonic juvenilia. Not Milton at his best, perhaps, but I like it anyway. I'm susceptible to this sort of thing.
On Shakespeare
John Milton
What needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.
And a much more recent one...
My Students
picture Shakespeare just like the domed
bust in Senior English plus puffy pants
and sissy shoes.
They see him sitting in an open window
thinking deep thoughts while below
the Avon teems with life -- coal and casks
of wine one way, barges of lowing cattle
the other.
And along the banks, young people kissing
with their mouths open, grappling with
the other's odd clothes,
all the stuff that doesn't make you famous
but that's a lot more fun than poetry.
-- Ron Koertge
We'll begin with a bit of Miltonic juvenilia. Not Milton at his best, perhaps, but I like it anyway. I'm susceptible to this sort of thing.
On Shakespeare
John Milton
What needs my Shakespear for his honour'd Bones,
The labour of an age in piled Stones,
Or that his hallow'd reliques should be hid
Under a Star-ypointing Pyramid?
Dear son of memory, great heir of Fame,
What need'st thou such weak witnes of thy name?
Thou in our wonder and astonishment
Hast built thy self a live-long Monument.
For whilst to th' shame of slow-endeavouring art,
Thy easie numbers flow, and that each heart
Hath from the leaves of thy unvalu'd Book,
Those Delphick lines with deep impression took,
Then thou our fancy of it self bereaving,
Dost make us Marble with too much conceaving;
And so Sepulcher'd in such pomp dost lie,
That Kings for such a Tomb would wish to die.
And a much more recent one...
My Students
picture Shakespeare just like the domed
bust in Senior English plus puffy pants
and sissy shoes.
They see him sitting in an open window
thinking deep thoughts while below
the Avon teems with life -- coal and casks
of wine one way, barges of lowing cattle
the other.
And along the banks, young people kissing
with their mouths open, grappling with
the other's odd clothes,
all the stuff that doesn't make you famous
but that's a lot more fun than poetry.
-- Ron Koertge