A Canto a Day 7 Edmund Spenser again

Amoretti 78, 1595

Lackyng my love I go from place to place,
lyke a young fawne that late hath lost the hynd:
and seeke each where, where last I sawe her face,
whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.
I seeke the fields with her late footing synd,
I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt,
yet nor in field nor bowre I her can fynd:
yet field and bowre are full of her aspect,
But when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
they ydly back returne to me agayne,
and when I hope to see theyr trew obiecct,
I fynd my selfe but fed with fancies vayne.
Ceasse then myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see,
and let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.

Fawns and hinds again but this time the poet casts himself in the role of lost fawn and his beloved as his lost mother. Nothing weird about that at all. The heavy repetition is also remarkable and highlights the artifice of the poem. The transformation of real events into literature finds a new form here: the loved one disappears and is re-embodied in the change she has brought about in the lover.

A Canto a Day 6: Samuel Daniel

Samuel Daniel: Delia 38 (1592)

When men shall find thy flower, thy glory pass,
And thou with careful brow sitting alone
Receiv'd hast this message from thy glass,
That tells the truth, and says that all is gone;
Fresh shalt thou see in me the wounds thou madest
Though spent thy flame, in me the heat remaining:
I that hath lov'd thee thus before thou fadest,
My faith shall waxe, while thou art in thy waning.
The world shall find this miracle in me,
That fire can burn, when all the matter's spent:
Then what my faith hath been thy self shalt see,
And that thou was unkind thou mayst repent.
Thou mayst repent that thou hast scorn'd my tears,
When winter snows upon thy golden hairs.

I had never heard of Samuel Daniel before. This sonnet is so Shakepearian in themes and diction that it's surprising to find that it predates the better known - and obviously better - works. The editors of The Art of the Sonnet are kind to this poem, finding more subtlety in it that I do. They argue that the poem ends in kindness towards the ungrateful beloved, and so rises above the more usual game of blame and defensiveness. I'm not convinced.

A Canto a Day 5 Spenser: Ruines of Rome

Thou stranger, which for Rome in Rome here seekest,
And nought of Rome in Rome perceiv'st at all,
These same olde walls, olde arches, which thou seest,
Olde Palaces, is that which Rome men call.
Behold what wreake, what ruine and what wast,
And how that she, which with her mightie powre
Tam'd all the world, hath tam'd herself at last,
The pray of time, which all things doth devoure.
Rome now of Rome is th'onely funerall,
And only Rome of Rome hath victorie;
Ne ought save Tyber hastning to his fall
Remaines of alll: O world's inconstancie.
That which is firme doth flit and fall away,
And that is flitting, doth abide and stay.

This is a translation by Edmund Spenser of poem 3 of Les Antiquitez by Joachim Du Bellay, and one of the best translations of anything there's ever been, I would say.

There's little to be said about it: the intent and structure of the poem go together so well, and although the theme of impermanence is familiar it's never been quite so well expressed. Well done, Mr Spenser. 

Nouveau venu qui cherches Rome en Rome
Et rien de Rome en Rome n’apperçois,
Ces vieux palais, ces vieux arcs que tu vois,
Et ces vieux murs, c’est ce que Rome on nomme.
Voy quel orgueil, quelle ruine, et comme
Celle qui mist le monde sous ses lois
Pour donter tout, se donta quelquefois,
Et devint proye au temps qui tout consomme.
Rome de Rome est le seul monument,
Et Rome Rome a vaincu seulement.
Le Tybre seul, qui vers la mer s’enfuit,
Reste de Rome, ô mondaine inconstance !
Ce qui est ferme est par le temps destruit,
Et ce qui fuit, au temps fait resistance.

A Canto a Day 4 Sidney

Astrophel and Stella 45

Stella oft sees the very face of woe
Painted in my beclouded stormy face,
But cannot skill to pity my disgrace,
Not though thereof the herself she know.
Yet hearing late a fable, which did show
Of lovers never known, a grievous case,
Pity thereof gate in her breast such place,
That from that sea deriv'd tears' spring did flow.
Alas, if Fancy, drawn by imag'd things
Though false, yet with free scope, more grace doth breed
Than servant's wrack, where new doubts honour brings,
Then think, my dear, that you in me do read
Of lover's ruin some sad tragedy:
I am not I: pity the tale of me.  

One thing that seems to come up a lot in sonnets is a comparison between love lived and love in literature. In this sonnet, Stella is able to respond to the sufferings of (at a guess) Paolo and Francesca in Dante's Inferno, but can't be moved by the suffering evident in Astrophel's face. It's an accusation, of course, and that "my dear" in line 12 sounds as patronising as it would today. The shortness of the last two lines suggests a sulk. 

I don't have any evidence to support the Paolo and Francesca link but it's very tempting. It's a double reference because they were also affected by reading literature: in their case the story of Lancelot and Guinevere. But in their case, the story acted as an aphrodisiac. Maybe Astrophel is peeved and frustrated that whereas Francesca was softened in the physical world of their relationship, Stella's reaction is spiritual, not bodily. He's spared the second circle of hell but that's not on his mind just now.

We'll come back to this, I'm sure: the notion that the real flesh and blood lover doesn't - can't - match the fictional lover in the sonnet itself or in some external work, and this may be a cause for sadness or anger. 

A Sonnet a Day 3

That self same tongue which first did thee entreat
To link thy liking with my lucky love:
That trusty tongue must now these words repeat,
I love thee still, my fancy cannot move.
That dreadless heart which durst attempt the thought
To win thy will with mine for to consent,
Maintains that vow which love in me first wrought,
I love thee still and never shall repent.
That happy hand which hardely did touch
Thy tender body, to my deep delight:
Shall serve with sword to prove my passion such
As loves thee still, much more than it can write.
Thus love I still with tongue, hand, hart and all,
And when I chaunge, let vengeance on me fall.

This is by George Gascoigne, dated 1573. It's another one I can't really warm to. The technical expertise is obvious: the repetition and variation is well controlled while the use of alliteration is a bit over the top. Unlike many sonnets it's fairly clear in its intentions: it's a compliment to the beloved and an advertisement for the lover. I've tried hard to find double entendres and I think the "sword" in line 11 may obviously be one but it's a bit limp.

A Sonnet a Day - 2

Norfolk sprang thee, Lambeth holds thee dead,
Clere, of the County of Cleremont, though hight,
Within the womb of Ormond's race thou bred,
And saw'st thy cousin crowned in thy sight.
Shelton for love, Surrey for Lord thou chase;
Aye, me! whilst life did last that league was tender.
Tracing whose steps thou sawest Kelsall blaze,
Laundersey burnt, and batter'd Bullen render.
At Muttrel gates, hopeless of all recure,
Thine Earl, half dead, gave in thy hand his will;
Which cause did thee this pining death procure,
Ere summers four times seven thou couldst fulfill.
Ah, Clere! if love had booted, care, or cost,
Heaven had not won, nor earth so timely lost.

This, of necessity, heavily notated poem is by Henry Howard, Earl of Surrey from the mid-16th century, and is a tribute to one of his soldiers, Thomas Clere. Even after getting past all the references and the englished placenames (Bullen = Boulogne, for example), I find it hard to warm to this. I imagine it spoke better to an age when brotherhood in arms was more important and the list of military triumphs was enough to evoke the love two comrades would have developed. We're given a list of experiences rather than personal qualities. We have to infer a lot. What I find most interesting is that Anne Boleyn turns up again: she was the "cousin crowned in thy sight". She was also often known as Anna Bullen, I believe, something that the editors seem to have missed.

A Sonnet a Day - introduction and no 1

As the lockdown continues, I've decided to pick up a book that's been lying on my floor for quite a while: The Art of the Sonnet by Stephen Burt and David Mikics, in which they look at one hundred "exemplary sonnets of the English language (and a few sonnets in translation)" and blog one of them a day. If I were Patrick Stewart I'd be reading them. Be thankful I'm not doing that. I'll stick to the ones in English and in the public domain (ie old). All comments welcome. 

"Whoso list to hunt" by Thomas Wyatt 

Whoso list to hunt: I know where is an hind,
But, as for me, helas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them, that farthest cometh behind
Yet, may I by no means, my wearied mind
Draw from the deer; but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Since in a net I seek to hold the wind. 

Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I, may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
"Noli me tangere, for Caesar's I am
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame."

There is a plausible autobiographical reading of the sonnet. Wyatt was suspected of being a lover of Anne Boleyn. He seems to have been lucky not to have been executed as a result. In the poem, if we see Boleyn as the beloved, it's clear that the speaker accepts his love is pointless (in vain) and indeed dangerous. Acknowledging his own also-ran status in the first eight lines, the final six sound a warning to others: this woman is "wild for to hold" or as we might say, if we were a 50s film noir, the dame is too hot to handle.

This poem was the Guardian's Poem of the Week in August 2009 and the thoughts of Carol Rumens are well worth reading.