Friday, August 4, 2017

OTI:one poem and notes:8/4/17

Open To Interpretation
Oh, things I do and say are as common
As an everyday resting forgotten
Within the pool of an antique fountain;
My koi fish colors all but forsaken.

My wishes fade as coins uncollected,
These prayers of mine and yours unsuited
To fly up as birds; we are un-sainted,
Gathered as we are with the undaunted.

There's seldom a pause in their workaday,
No invitation to play comes our way
To sun ray a morning's overcast grey;
Not likely they hear our rhymes' neigh.

So, tell me cat wounded chirping for feed
In our common lay, what fare do we need?


Notes: ...while trying to rescue a cat stricken baby bird, the neighbors donated a bird cage...the bird's kind of 'kill them or feed them' once choosing to feed them, one is doomed to, then one night around midnight, I hear 'chirp chirp chirp' again and again, and go out to see, and two of the three cats have another cornered, a fledgling this time. and the cage was outside having been washed with the garden house, and it was simple...I put the sparrow in the cage and it is beginning to prosper with a taste for mealy, so, this morning I hear 'chirp chirp', and look to the sparrow, but its sitting quiet, and I say oh heck, and the same two cats are under the kitchen table with another fledgling...these poor things are leaving their nests only to be batted about by cats' now there's two in the convenient cage...and the chirping got into the poem!...I was diverted from writing sonnets at the was the only form I could grasp, and after writing like five, my poetry class instructor thought I had gone mad, and when I wrote something else in free verse, said, 'I thought you would never stop...'...perhaps he intuited that, having learned the old poets wrote sonnets in series, that I had had in mind not to stop until I'd written up a bunch!...I haven't forgotten that diversion, and now maybe I am back on that old track!...and now it is a track I can follow, insomuch that there is much on the web about sonnets...back at the outset, only library books were a source of study, unless one knew a sonneteer, and they were like I can study something out on the web that would take months tracking in the limited college library, which was paltry, for poetry, as all were back really know sonnets one would have to be a monomaniac back then, or enrolled in the most elite of colleges...mine was referred to as a 'teaching college', with an engineering bunch, the rest to the side, artists, athletes musicians, nearly know a college before you go, check the library to see if your interest is there...Palomar College in Escondido had rows and rows of art books...and just a two year community college...anyway, now on the web there are 'rows and rows' of commentary about sonnets, and the sonnets themselves...much fun this morning was googling 'famous sonnets'...earlier, 'ten best sonnets' commentary has it that the form itself, maybe more the Petracharn form than Shakespeare's, is related to the golden ratio, and brought to mind sacred geometry and a favorite book of mine, The Power of Limits, which Wordsworth put into a sonnet, one of his 500!...brb...


“Nuns Fret Not,” William Wordsworth (1807)
Nuns fret not at their convents’ narrow room;
And hermits are contented with their cells;
And students with their pensive citadels;
Maids at the wheel, the weaver at his loom,
Sit blithe and happy; bees that soar for bloom,
High as the highest Peak of Furness-fells,
Will murmur by the hour in foxglove bells:
In truth the prison, into which we doom
Ourselves, no prison is: and hence for me,
In sundry moods, ‘twas pastime to be bound
Within the Sonnet’s scanty plot of ground;
Pleased if some Souls (for such there needs must be)
Who have felt the weight of too much liberty,
should find brief solace there, as I have found. 
That site's title is: Chaos in Fourteen Lines by Annie Finch..brb...
The critic Paul Oppenheimer has observed that since the last two lines of a sonnet are often separated off from the rest in a couplet or an implied couplet that closes the poem, the proportions of the form are 6:8:12. And this proportion, in fact, represents the special mathematical ratio which the Greeks called the Golden Mean. 
A ratio found throughout nature, the Golden Mean is apparent in the proportions by which flower petals grow, twigs sprout from stems, and the shapes of snowflakes crystallize. It is also a ratio evident in the proportions of the human body.
same site...
I'm collecting formatting quoting, and kind of stuck!...The 'Chaos' in the title is likely a pun...on disorder in order, like fractal 'chaos theory'...sonnets are famous for puns...

another site is a treasure trove, and starts out with one of the earliest English sonnets, which is really good I think!, and a lead into much history...


Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind,
But as for me, hélas, I may no more.
The vain travail hath wearied me so sore,
I am of them that farthest cometh behind.
Yet may I by no means my wearied mind
Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore
Fainting I follow. I leave off therefore,
Since in a net I seek to hold the wind.
Who list her hunt, I put him out of doubt,
As well as I may spend his time in vain.
And graven with diamonds in letters plain
There is written, her fair neck round about:
Noli me tangere, for Caesar’s I am,
And wild for to hold, though I seem tame.

Sir Thomas Wyatt

Noli me tangere is Don't touch me


and one more from Wordsworth, which is a little guide for the history of sonnets...


Scorn not the Sonnet
Scorn not the Sonnet; Critic, you have frowned,
Mindless of its just honours; with this key
Shakespeare unlocked his heart; the melody
Of this small lute gave ease to Petrarch's wound;
A thousand times this pipe did Tasso sound;
With it Camöens soothed an exile's grief;
The Sonnet glittered a gay myrtle leaf
Amid the cypress with which Dante crowned
His visionary brow: a glow-worm lamp,
It cheered mild Spenser, called from Faery-land
To struggle through dark ways; and, when a damp
Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand
The Thing became a trumpet; whence he blew
Soul-animating strains—alas, too few!




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