Shawn L. Bird

Original poetry, commentary, and fiction. All copyrights reserved.

literary immortality July 6, 2012

I’ve been spending the last few days transcribing my copy of Susanna Dobson’s Life of Petrarch (1777) and as I plug away on the typing I am musing on immortality.

The other day I alluded to and listed Shakespeare’s “Sonnet 18,” and as I read it, I am thinking of the comparison between Will’s unknown inspiration, and Petrarch’s Laure.  Here’s that sonnet again:

SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

Thou art more lovely and more temperate.

Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,

And summer’s lease hath all too short a date.

Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,

And often is his gold complexion dimmed;

And every fair from fair sometime declines,

By chance, or nature’s changing course, untrimmed;

But thy eternal summer shall not fade,

Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,

Nor shall death brag thou wand’rest in his shade,

When in eternal lines to Time thou grow’st.

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,

So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.


The immortality happens in the closing couplet.  So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.  “This” is, of course, Will’s poem.  He claims that he has made his beloved immortal by describing her (or him) in this poem.  The immortality has limited value, being as we have no idea of whom he was speaking, but the moment of loving adoration is captured for all time.

Petrarch is a little more specific.  He names his love, and of course, the people of his time knew exactly who she was.  He calls her Laure, and his poetry abounds with symbolism of the laurel.  A crown of laurels was (and still is) a mark of distinction. Petrarch believes she is his crown and his success.  History (particularly the Abbé de Sade in his Mémoires sur la vie de François Pétrarque, 1764) records her as Laure de Noves, wife of Hugues de Sade.  (In English, we call her Laura).

Here is Petrarch’s Canzoniere 6 which shows a play on the laurel at the end:

Now so depraved is my poor fool, desire,
To persecute this lady, turned in flight,
Unloosed of Love’s entrapments, footing light,
Ahead of my slow run he flies. Prior

To my objections, by the roads most dire,
The more I call, the more he takes to flight;
Restraint is weak, nor has the spur its bite
When Love and nature in him do conspire.

And then he grasps the bridle to direct
The way, and takes me for a vassal, hastes
Post-haste, as though to death, my worsened state

To reach at last the laurel and collect
The bitter fruit of others’ plagues, the tastes
That grieve one more, unless they consolate.

(trans.  “Hypocorism” on Yahoo Answers)

This poem is echoing the section that I’m transcribing at the moment.  Laura is being stalked.  Petrarch follows her about Avignon, gazing dreamily at her or trying to talk to her.  She covers her face and takes off in the other direction.  You can almost hear her running steps while Petrarch shouts rhyming verses extolling her beauty.  It’s a wonder her hubby Hugues didn’t call him out and beat him to a pulp!  (Now that’s an interesting scene, isn’t it?  Hmm.  Expect to see something along those lines).

The summary of this vague sort of comparison between Will and Francesco is that  to truly be immortalized, the beloved needs a name, and a personality.  Laure seems far more real than Will’s anonymous beloved.  While Laure is busy running in the opposite direction, pulling her veil over her head, and trying to maintain her virtue against the onslaught of Petrarch’s devotion, Will’s beloved is a static object, simply receiving affection and adoration.  There is no sense of individuality.  Nonetheless, the love does become immortal because it is recorded.  Words are powerful.

Here’s an afterword by poet Jacopo Sannazzaro   (1458–1530).  A hundred years earlier, Petrarch had lived at the spring that is the source of the Sorgue River, writing his canzonieres to Laura beneath the limestone cliffs that echo with the burbling of the river.

Sorgues, the River  Laura de Sade

THE NYMPH by Sorga’s humble murmurings born,

Illustrious now on wings of glory soars;        

Her high renown its awful echo pours           

Wide o’er the earth. Splendors like these adorn        

Her, destined, in her modest beauty’s morn,          5

To charm the eye of Petrarch. Her the doors 

Of fame’s proud dome enshrine; the radiant stores   

Of fancy blaze around her; nor does scorn    

On her low birthplace and obscurer tomb      

Glance a triumphant scowl. What suns illume                    10

With lustre like the Muse? How many dames,          

Wise, chaste, and lovely, of distinguished race,        

Have slept in death forgotten, lost their names,        

While hers from age to age beams with still heightened grace.         

(Trans. Capel Lofft)

Indeed.  The words craft immortality; the love brings fame.

This image is popularly considered to be Laure de Noves de Sade, beloved of Petrarch, though the Musee Petrarque in Fontaine de Vaucluse asserts that there are NO verified pictures of her, most being painted years after her death.

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Shall I compare thee July 4, 2012

Filed under: Teaching — Shawn L. Bird @ 8:02 am
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I know.  School is over the year.  But still, when you come across something this great, you just have to share.  🙂  The referenced poem is at the bottom, just in case you wanted it.

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SONNET 18.  William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate.
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer's lease hath all too short a date.
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimmed;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st.
     So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
     So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
 

Canzoniere 61 the final translation July 14, 2011

Filed under: Grace Awakening,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 1:16 am
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Earlier in the week I led you through the process of translating Petrarch’s Canzoniere 61. I thought I’d share with you the final version that is going to press in Awakening Dreams.  There have been a few words changed up to improve consonance and punctuation has clarified meaning.  As well, line 2 was altered as it didn’t end on the correct beat (iambic rhythm) in the draft.

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Most blesséd be the day, the month, the year,
And blesséd be the hour, the moment when,
I found this place, and saw my sweet torment.
Her lovely eyes completely tied me here.

So blesséd was her breath as I came near,
That Love entangled me within her scent,
Against his arrows left me impotent,
And bound my heart to hers. So, thus endeared,

Sweet blesséd voices call my lady’s name,
And weave her glorious beauty in my verse.
My sighs, my tears, and my desires contained,

Most blesséd are the papers I disperse,
To share the thoughts that bring me fame,
The thoughts of her that are my blissful curse.

Translation (c) Shawn Bird

Not only did this moment capture Petrarch, but it captivated artists through the centuries who imaged the moment that Petrarch describes in this sonnet, and painted it as they imagined it.  The painting on the left is the actual moment of meeting in St. Clara’s in Avignon.  I have been in what is left of this convent chapel, as you can see from the photo below.  If it really looked like this artist has captured it, it is really very sad to see the ruins that it is now.

The picture on the right shows a lot of the symbolism represented in the poem.  Laure is represented by the laurel tree in the background, cupid (aka Love) has fired  his arrow at Petrarch and it has struck him in the heart.  Laure is presenting him with the laurel wreath that represents his literary success.  (He was crowned Rome’s Poet Laureate in 1341).  Petrarch himself frequently played with Laure/laurel the woman/fame metaphor.  What is interesting in this painting is that Petrarch is shown as an old man, while Laure is shown as a young woman.  In fact there are only 6 years between them.  (He was born in 1304, she in 1310).  Perhaps it represents them at their deaths?  She was 38, and he was 70.

Petrarch and Laura

Here I am in the ruins of St. Claire convent, standing pretty close to where the artist set the scene on the left, by the looks of things.  I just found the painting this morning, and this similarity kind of gives me chills.  There is no roof. It is an open space garden and performance area now.

Shawn at Ste Claire Convent (Theatre des Halles) Avignon France

 

Canzoniere 61 – process July 11, 2011

Filed under: Grace Awakening,Poetry,Writing — Shawn L. Bird @ 2:11 am
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Here’s a picture of my day. Today’s project was translating a sonnet from Petrarch’s original Italian into English. I had received permission from Penguin to use a translation by Anthony Mortimer of Canzoniere 13 for Grace Awakening, but after the publisher went out of business, I let the deadline to pay for the use go past. I still wanted a Petrarchan Canzoniere in that particular section of the novel though, and that meant I had to do my own translation.  I also wanted it to rhyme following Petrarch’s strict scheme, and I wanted it to be in iambic pentameter.

I started with the public domain version of the original Italian sonnet 61:

Benedetto sia ‘l giorno, et ‘l mese, et l’anno,
et la stagione, e ‘l tempo, et l’ora, e ‘l punto,
e ‘l bel paese, e ‘l loco ov’io fui giunto
da’duo begli occhi che legato m’ànno;

et benedetto il primo dolce affanno
ch’i’ ebbi ad esser con Amor congiunto,
et l’arco, et le saette ond’i’ fui punto,
et le piaghe che ‘nfin al cor mi vanno.

Benedette le voci tante ch’io
chiamando il nome de mia donna ò sparte,
e i sospiri, et le lagrime, e ‘l desio;

et benedette sian tutte le carte
ov’io fama l’acquisto, e ‘l pensier mio,
ch’è sol di lei, sí ch’altra non v’à parte.

My next step was to plug the poem into the Google translator to get the basics. The result was this:

Blessed be ‘the day, et’ the month, year et,
et the season, and ‘the time, et the time, and’ the point,
and ‘the beautiful country, and’ the spot where I arrived I was
da’duo beautiful eyes that tied m’ànno;

et blessed is the first sweet breath
ch’i ‘I had to be combined with Amor,
et l’arc, et Whence the arrows’ point was,
et the wounds’ Nfiniti go to my heart.

Blessed are the many voices that I
calling the name of my wife or esparto,
and the sighs, the tears et, and ‘the desire;

Blessed are all the cards et
known where I buy, and ‘s my thought,
which is only about her, yes that another party does not v’à.

Writing draft- false start and then the better flow

As you can see, while not perfect, it’s certainly good enough to know where he was going, and to catch the Italian words I wasn’t familiar with.  I could fill in the blanks from there.   I spent some time on http://www.Rhymezone.com, which is my go-to site when I’m creating a complex rhyming poem, and played with various options.  I baked a cake.  I instant messaged a friend in France. I went to a farewell party.  I watched Star Wars Episode IV (which is really still Episode one, to me).   I had a bath.  I read the editor’s most recent comments on Awakening Dreams.  I wrote lines.  I re-wrote lines.

As of this moment, I am satisfied with this result, although it may not be the final version.  I finished it at 2 a.m. so it’s allowed to not quite be perfect yet.  I have my iambic pentameter. I have Petrarca’s ABBA ABBA CDCDCD rhyme scheme.  I have stayed true to Petrarch’s intent in this poem, I think, and that’s the most important thing.

Most blesséd be the day, the month, the year
And blesséd be the hour and the moment
When I arrived to find my own torment.
Her lovely eyes completely tied me here;

So blesséd was her breath as I came near,
That Love entangled me within her scent,
Against the arrows left me impotent,
And bound my heart to hers, so thus endeared.

Dear blesséd voices call my lady’s name
And weave her glorious beauty in my verse.
My sighs, my tears, and my desires contained,

Most blesséd are the papers I disperse,
To share my thoughts that bring me fame,
The thoughts of her that are my joyful curse.

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See the FINAL TRANSLATION here.

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Translation (c) Shawn Bird 2011

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Reclining Angels February 7, 2011

Filed under: Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 10:34 pm
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Your warm breath blowing up against my back

can fill the night with peace and with gladness:

A deep abiding sense of happiness.

Your breath’s a metaphor that shows the fact

That nothing in the world is better than

Being held tightly by strong and loving arms

In an embrace that protects from all harm,

An embrace that assures, “I am your man.”

And when I curl into that firm embrace

And place my ice cold feet upon your shins

For that quick quivering gasp that makes me smile,

You pull me tight and tickle with your chin

A bristly kiss that shows there’s no denial.

I’m thankful for the gift of heavenly grace.

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(All fixed- iambic pentameter with a solid Petrarchan rhyme scheme! 😉

Submitted as part of Jingle’s Poetry Monday potluck on Love, Romance, and Relationships: http://jinglepoetry.blogspot.com/   Potluck visitors, please put a link to your potluck post within your comment.  Thanks!

 

Sonnet for Grace 2 July 24, 2010

Filed under: Grace Awakening,Poetry — Shawn L. Bird @ 9:01 pm
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Your eyes awaken tender dreams in me

That call across mere lifetimes to the past

Revealed as twinkling stars in skies so vast:

A universe that’s less than we can see.

Beyond the Earth the roof of Heaven glows;

Beneath the ground the molten rivers glide,

Yet in your love securely I abide.

Without you Hell is close, but Heaven knows

That love like ours parades across all time,

Encircling all who come within its arms.

No sorrow can hold long against a joy

entreating me to fill the world with rhyme.

We rise on love above all Earthly harm

For death has lost its power to destroy.

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Persona of Ben writing about Grace again.  Poor guy. He’s got it bad.

(I really do need to work on proper sonnet structure that incorporates a volta.  You don’t  see one in this, do you?  No?  I didn’t, either.  Sigh.)

 

 
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