In "My Mistress' Eyes are Nothing Like the Sun," Shakespeare compares his lover to nature. Throughout the poem, Shakespeare continually says that nature is more beautiful than his own lover. While the reader may at first be astonished when Shakespeare says that "coral is far more red than her lip's red" and then again shocked when he says her breath stinks, the last two lines are redeeming. "And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare / As any she belied with false compare" is a line that essentially means "But yeah, my love for her is really special and there's no way I could compare it to nature or any other false representation." To me, it means that his love for her goes beyond the typical poetic idea to compare one's love for someone to any symbol of nature. He is making a point to say that while she may not compare to the redness of coral or the beauty in roses, she is something all on her own.
"The Everyday Enchantment of Music" by Mark Strand
The important thing to note about this poem is obviously the formatting of the lines. Instead of being arranged into lines inside of stanzas, Strand chooses to write this poem in a paragraph. I think the importance of this lies in the meaning of the poem as well. In the poem, Strand describes "a rough sound" being "polished until it became a smoother sound" and then becoming more "polished until it became music." Strand then describes how this song was great for one night, and then it all went away, and all that was left was "the empty home of a heart in trouble." The next day, the same thing would happen. I think what Strand is essentially trying to convey is that music has the power to take us to a different time and place, and that it can conjure up fantasies and feeling like you are elsewhere, but once the music is gone, you are still back where you started. I think the formatting of the poem works in this manner, too, because it is very basic. Instead of being formatted as lines and stanzas, the paragraph serves as a deconstructed way of looking at a piece of art, the same way the music started out in the beginning of the poem.
"Famous" by Naomi Shihab Nye
In the poem "Famous," Naomi Shihab Nye explores the definition of the word "famous" and gives it a number of meanings, but most importantly, a closeness and intimacy. For example, Nye writes "[t]he loud voice is famous to silence, / which knew it would inherit the earth / before anybody said so." This could be an allusion to creation and genesis, the idea that there was nothing but silence until "[t]he loud voice" (of God, presumably) spoke out and willed it to be so. Nye also defines "famous" as something dangerous when she writes "[t]he cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds / watching him from the birdhouse." Could it be that fame can eat you up? The next few lines seem to contrast the danger she describes beforehand; this time, she describes an intimate kind of fame. "The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek. / The idea that you carry close to your bosom / is famous to your bosom." Another interesting pair of lines is "[t]he bent photography is famous to the one who carries it / and not at all famous to the one who is pictured." Here, it seems that Nye finds the idea of fame as being subjective and personal to each person. Perhaps Nye is referring to idolizing a person as well. Finally, the last lines of the poem give the reader Nye's own idea of how she wants to be famous, which she answers quite simply, saying that she wants to be famous because she never forget what she could do.
A
rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was
polished until it
became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a
night in Venice
when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was
polished until it ceased to be and in its place stood the empty home of a
heart in trouble. Then suddenly there was sun and the music came back
and traffic was moving and off in the distance, at the edge of the city,
a long line of clouds appeared, and there was thunder, which, however
menacing,
would become music, and the memory of what happened after Venice would
begin, and what
happened after the home of the troubled heart broke in two would also
begin.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22864#sthash.LwzVpLFo.dpuf
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22864#sthash.LwzVpLFo.dpuf
A
rough sound was polished until it became a smoother sound, which was
polished until it
became music. Then the music was polished until it became the memory of a
night in Venice
when tears of the sea fell from the Bridge of Sighs, which in turn was
polished until it ceased to be and in its place stood the empty home of a
heart in trouble. Then suddenly there was sun and the music came back
and traffic was moving and off in the distance, at the edge of the city,
a long line of clouds appeared, and there was thunder, which, however
menacing,
would become music, and the memory of what happened after Venice would
begin, and what
happened after the home of the troubled heart broke in two would also
begin.
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22864#sthash.LwzVpLFo.dpuf
- See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/22864#sthash.LwzVpLFo.dpuf
y mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15557#sthash.aSapKF5B.dpuf
y mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare. - See more at: http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15557#sthash.aSapKF5B.dpuf
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