Sonnet to the Bard
It is strange that I had taken a long time to write something for someone who inspired me in discovering the beautiful art of writing Sonnets. While there are many who wrote sonnets, Shakespearean sonnets seem like the embodiment of the perfection in poetry...and I began investing my energy on producing sonnets. Of course I tend to make mistakes and some time may write really stupid and meaningless verses...nevertheless, I believe, "when you gotta write, you gotta write".
Here we go then:
How love makes its way into a man's life?
And how a man loves a woman in truth?
It had always been a matter of strife
To my crazy mind while I was a youth.
Then came upon it, one wild breezy storm
On a graceful day, I remember still
An angel of fire in a human form
Stroke it hard with a wand against my will;
I fainted awhile into deep slumber
Woke up in the arms of an unknown God
Counting syllables ten, the strange number
In each of fourteen lines He wrote, aloud.
'Twas Sonnet one one six in His orchard
A bliss on me of the great English Bard.
In His own words......
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-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering 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.
Here we go then:
How love makes its way into a man's life?
And how a man loves a woman in truth?
It had always been a matter of strife
To my crazy mind while I was a youth.
Then came upon it, one wild breezy storm
On a graceful day, I remember still
An angel of fire in a human form
Stroke it hard with a wand against my will;
I fainted awhile into deep slumber
Woke up in the arms of an unknown God
Counting syllables ten, the strange number
In each of fourteen lines He wrote, aloud.
'Twas Sonnet one one six in His orchard
A bliss on me of the great English Bard.
Siddartha Pamulaparty
Nov 17 2006.
*************************************************************************************In His own words......
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-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering 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.
William Shakespeare (1564 - 1616)
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