Today is 12.19.16.6.9 6 Muluc 7 Zip

1311 shopping days until 13.0.0.0.0 4 Ahau 3 K’ank’in.

Video by Dave McKean

When, my love swears that she is made of truth
I do believe her, though I know she lies,
That she might think me some untutor’d youth,
Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties.
Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young.
Although she knows my days are past the best,
Simply I credit her false speaking tongue:
On both side thus is simple truth suppress’d:
But wherefore says she not she is unjust?
And wherefore says not I that I am old?
O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,
And age in love loves not to have years told:
Therefore I lie with her and she with me,
And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet 138

Today is the 400th anniversary of the publication of Shake’speare’s Sonnets.

The sonnets are a part of my literary DNA. I still have my ancient Signet 95 cent paperback edition, with an introduction by W.H. Auden, purchased circa 1977. However…

I might as well confess right off that I can’t write a decent sonnet to save my life. Nevertheless, I aspire to write a sonnet as good as one of Shakespeare’s–someday. This, barring a miracle, is an unachievable goal. I think it good for a poets and artists to have such goals, aspirations that may be failed honorably, and repeatedly. Failure is as necessary to poets and other makers as it is to God.

Note: I like Dave McKean’s short film of Sonnet 138 very much. It’s everything I’d like my scissor dances to be had I the animation skills to make them actually dance.

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6 responses to “Today is 12.19.16.6.9 6 Muluc 7 Zip

  1. Pingback: shakespeare’s sonnets published 400 years ago « Read Write Poem

  2. Unquestionably, this is today’s reason to live.

  3. Great find! I looked for Shakespeare on YouTube a while back, to include in Moving Poems, but this one isn’t very well tagged, I guess — I missed it.

  4. Dear Doc, i have been busy as usual in May
    wrangling the wolves at the door, finding them
    a fit pack and an unfit herd shot round by round
    past that impertinent gobstopper/ gabtopper,
    to twist the lingual sarcoma til it rots and wrings
    out a lumpen paron-omastic unEvened. But hence,
    i have been somewhat unavailable to the Shew of shews.

    Your confessor is now in. Say a trimoron of Ave Maria’s
    and go in peace, son. Or else beat back your nemeses
    imagioned with the knob end of a TRex bone of
    thigh. I shall set myself the perpetual penance of
    finding a sonnet midst your ouevre. Taking you for the
    moment at your word, i.e., no sonnet to thy name, here is
    your solace of salvation via the imperative of golgotha, only
    in the place of racked skulls do we calvarize up a sonnet,
    knowing full well you shall not go forth to sin no more
    [ by omission ], but though unchristened and likely to be
    unchrismed, heathen, still to savor the impenitence of
    the confessional box, sans the niceties of little sliding doors or
    purple doilies hung betwixt my impersonation of
    the all unknowing Father and your personation of
    the misguilted Son.

    The most likely reason you do not perpetrate a sonnet
    is that sonnets are brief vacations from reality, short
    fast trips that begin with laying rubber and end with
    a hard brake in front of a wall of mirrors. Particularly
    as written by El Shakesbaugh, the sonnet begins with
    saying hard and contradictory things that ordinary lovers
    have the wisdom to avoid at all costs. The sonnet
    proceeds as if a compacted journey ahard upon pilgrimage road
    with Wife of Bath, no peregrinations, point to point
    is the lie of their seeming transigence of logics, until
    the contradiction gets resolved in wit, i.e. in a most
    charming lie.

    Since you live and create within an encompassing unified
    reality, comfortably at your ease within conflictual zones,
    you have no need to create false journeys, and no need
    to resolve. You love chaos, your savings and loans are
    perpetually insolvent and unpanicked, no Resolution Trust
    Aggrandizement for thou, my son. Ah the bright and
    shining lies of Willie Sonneteer, thou unwilling son et
    teared town tiered up and torn down at nonce.

    Don’t believe Father William as he shucks your oysters ?
    Consider then the unseemly jewel of Sonnet 116.
    What does the doubtable Shakescene do when the
    contradiction in his premise, the impossibility of love,
    the certainty of the all death, the fitriance and the dearth,
    the Universitial Twit, the Reading Gaol of conturbat me,
    threatens defeat to his Inner Poet ? He retreats into
    Dense Imagery. Those Rotten Fruit, those tripely
    tropes, just do not blend. Defeated, the Bailbondsman
    of Irony succumbs to Mixmaster of metaphor.

    Which is where the Doc has always lived and arted,
    in medias res, no, worse, in the thick of it, in the plasmatic
    turbulence, unwitted, unnarratived, unlogicked into lie.
    Unificatio, acceptance of the contradense, the imagination
    of truth. As compared to the sonnet, an imago, an impositiono
    of gross logic upon the primrose path to narcosis.
    Pandemonium, that’s where the good Doctor lives,
    and dares to raise his head. No lieing little footsteps
    up the yellow brick road thru the bower of bliss until
    the happy couplet passes beneath the Arc d’Triomphe
    of perpetrated lie.

    Do the Locomotion ? Not our Doc.

  5. and, btw, thank you C.G.J., Shakespeare
    would have said, ” Thank Gott, I am Shakespeare and not a Shakespearean.”

  6. Pingback: Sonnet 138

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