Sonnets

Dear Reader,

A few weeks ago, in an attempt at procrastination, I decided to reorganise all my bookshelves. If you have been following this blog for some time, you'll understand what an immense task this was. For your interest, dear curious reader I will, once again, map out the arrangements of my books with photographs, but not today. 

Today, I want to write about something I found under a pile of books from my bygone days, when I used to study English Literature. It was my old copy of Shakespeare's Sonnets:

I don't know why this book in particular piqued my interest. I had devoured the entire thing when I was 14 and just beginning to dive into marvellous but murky waters of metaphors and imagery. Those poems had fuelled my imagination greatly and inspired me to write, even though, I have to admit, I did not understand most of the meanings behind what he had written. My love for the poems was based almost entirely on their literary value. 

There was something about finding those poems now, that felt providential. As if, Allah (swt) knowing my current dismayed attitude towards poetry and creativity, wanted to encourage me to carry on writing. By once again providing me with something that had once so inspired me, Allah (swt) in all His guiding wisdom, wanted to remind me of my love for poetry. And so in the time I usually leave for fictional reading (i.e. just before I go to bed), I have been re-analysing each sonnet individually now, with a much more aged and, hopefully, wizened mind. Here is an example:

I thinking that, at least the first 10 or so sonnets, are written from the perspective of a once-beautiful man. And now he is also looking through the eyes of age and wisdom, warning his young and extremely handsome son/protégée about the follies of vanity, of how physical beauty is superficial and will fade with time. And underlying that, there seems to be a plea, for the beautiful youth to pass on this beauty that once belonged to his mother; pass it on to his own children if, like the poet, he wants this beauty to persist after his eventual but inevitable death.        

I know, I know! There's a big whole in my interpretation. The actor who went by the name William Shakespeare didn't have any sons. But then again, I never really believed that he was the true author of these magnificent poems and plays anyway. There are just too many obvious pieces that don't add up. Alas, but this is a debate for another time. I've added here Sonnet 2 for your perusal, dear reader. Let me know what you think of it and my interpretation.     

When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, 
And dig deep trenches in thy beauty's field,
Thy youth's proud livery, so gazed on now,
Will be a totter'd weed, of small worth held:
Then being asked where all thy beauty lies,
Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;
To say, within thine own deep-sunken eyes,
Were an all-eating shame and thriftless praise.
How much more praise deserved thy beauty use?
If thou could answer, "This fair child of mine
Shall sum my count, and make my old excuse,"
Proving his beauty by succession thine!
           This were to be new made when thou art old,
           And see thy blood warm when thou feels it cold. 

I've also added here some quotes from some of the other sonnets that I thought were just too amazing to keep to myself:

Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft, ~ Sonnet 5


Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel. ~ Sonnet 1

Thou art thy mother's glass, and she in thee
Calls back the lovely April of her prime:
...Despite of wrinkles, this thy golden time. ~ Sonnet 3


That thou among the wastes of time must go,
Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake,
And die as fast as they see others grow; ~ Sonnet 12



Music to hear, why hear'st thou music sadly?

Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy. ~ Sonnet 8


However, since we are speaking of sonnets and age and maturity, I thought I'd present you, dear reader, first one of my very first sonnets (that I wrote when I was about 15) and then, of course, my latest one.  

Flight

To lift my wings, and to fly,

To see all these cities bare,

To watch people boldly lie,

To feel the rush of the air.

To see things born, see them die,

To glimpse beauty and despair,

To reach the top, touch the sky,

To race along with a mare.

To witness those, in pain, cry.

To sight tender love and care,

To view people steel and buy,

To sense scenic freedom so near.

To lift my wings and to gloriously fly,

No day could be more fair.

***

Thoughts on a Plane (7th February, 2012)

The soft white landscape in the sky,

I look on to as I hover by,

And remark on the hills the clouds form,

Or the black mountains created by a storm,

Or wispy ones that are a steamy stream

Lit asunder by sun-light’s full gleam.

They travel the world, these fluffy Bedouins.  

With all their hidden precipitous denizens.

So as I journey above, this city of pearl cotton

I watch as the light around me, slowly softens.

Until nought but an orange-red ribbon is left,

Gracing this perpetual horizon, right to left.

Now awe and breathless is how I feel,

            As before my Creator I prostrate and kneel.  

I just realised that, despite the fact that these two sonnets were written 7 years apart, and that I have written many other sonnets concerning all sorts of topics in between, these two in particular seem to share a theme: gazing out over the world, from above.

And with that thought, I shall say goodbye.   

Nida