oh boy, sonnets again. after a meeting about Gem of the Ocean, a pit stop to school, 2 wedding sites, amongst other events, all before 4pm, my brain is kinda fried. but can i do this? yes, i can. and yes, i must. and my reward for hard work accomplished will be... SPONGE BOB! that's good motivation right there.
57- the poet is basically saying that he is (someones?) slave. he has nothing better to do than be at their beck and call. 'like a sad slave', he waits, blindly trusts, and pines.
58-continuing from 57, he gladly suffers. yes, it is hell to wait, but he places no blame on his love for this. of course.
59- this sonnet is a complicated in a lovely way. the cyclical nature of history and behavior is the focus of this one. time revolves because history does. as Bevington says, 'striving to give birth to a new creation, merely miscarry with the repetition of something created before'.
60- (see quote below.) time just keeps on moving forward, whether we want it to or not. nature creates such unique beauty just to rip it apart as time rolls on.
61- the poet stays up all night thinking about his love. is that what she (he?) wants? he waits and waits while imagining his love off having fun with who-knows-who.
62- the poet has some serious sin in his life. what is that sin, you ask? the sin is self-love. yup. vanity. but then he looks in the mirror and realizes that he's getting old and maybe isn't as great in actuality as he is in his head. the last couplet here, i'm not so sure about.
sonnets 57 and 58 = blech. if only they were written sarcastically, it would be great. but i don't think that's what's going on here? he is grovelling? guilt tripping? being incredibly manipulative? whatever it is, it's gross.
sonnets 59 and 60 are lovely. read them. you'll get to thinking about time and mortality.
it's around sonnet 61 that i really start to get concerned for the poet. he starting to sound not just like an obsessive, manipulative, needy lover but also sort of like... a stalker. i envision Shakespeare sitting in the dark at his window like a creep waiting, waiting, waiting... perhaps with crow bar in hand.
sonnet 62 i have no words for. can anyone help me with that last couplet? i'm a little confused.
quote of the day:
'like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,
so do our minutes hasten to their end.
each changing place with that which goes before,
in sequent toil all forwards do contend.'
for tomorrow: 2 Henry IV Intro Info
4 poems, 15 plays, 62 sonnets down. 1 poem, 23 plays, 92 sonnets to go. still behind. but i can do it.