William Shakespeare- Sonnet 130 (My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun)

My 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.

This sonnet can hardly be considered a traditional love poem; in fact, the language used seems it would be more appropriate if found in a bitter message of hate.  Though times have changed considerably since this poem was penned, I cannot think of a single woman in the entire course of history who would have deemed the phrase, “black wires grow from her head” as one with any measurable romantic value.  Why then did Shakespeare choose such scathing terminology to describe his adored mistress?

Perhaps he was seeking (as literary geniuses often do) a departure from the traditional clichés of love poetry.  If this was indeed his aim, I don’t believe a single reader of this sonnet could disagree that he hit his mark spot on.  His sharp, though presumably realistic, comments on his mistress’ lips, breasts, and even breath certainly serve as a great leap from the expected, complimentary style of writing.  Suppose his work had come off as a sappy, dime-a-dozen, romantic bit.  Firstly, people such as myself would probably be far less keen to spend their time prodding and poking at it, and, more importantly, it just wouldn’t have been Shakespeare.

As a woman myself, I can clearly see the appeal related to a comparison with an angel or another creature told to possess radiating, unearthly beauty.  Sadly enough, that connection has been made.  And made.  And made.  It constantly resurfaces in poetry, novels, song lyrics, and movie scripts.  Though I would probably find such a comparison flattering if ever personally addressed with it, I can heartily say I’ve had enough of its broadcastings to faceless lovers across the world.  Seriously, people.  I know thy words are blossoming from thy frustrated, hopelessly romantic souls, but give it a rest already.  It’s getting repetitious.

How, you may ask, does my above-mentioned plea relate in any way to this Shakespearean sonnet, which was clearly structured outside the annoying mold of which I speak?  They come together because it is my belief that sonnet 130 presents not only a daring departure from tradition but a formula for a preferable and more meaningful message of love.

Who really cares if a man can sweep you off your feet and call you Aphrodite?  You are left with the realistic conclusion that you are not, in fact, a child of Zeus, and then there’s the unpleasant realization that your lover lacks any authority to make such a claim. (Better luck next time, Slick.)  In his sonnet, Shakespeare is quite clear: “I grant I never saw a goddess go/ My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.”  Now, I could go into a great deal of depth about why an honest love will always triumph as the truest and purest, but in my mind, it doesn’t make any sense to use a whole mess of words to convey the exact point Shakespeare has already related perfectly in his clinching couplet: “And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare/ As any she belied with false compare.”

When I Have Fears That I May Cease To Be- John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain,
Before high piled books, in charact’ry,
Hold like rich garners the full-ripen’d grain;
When I behold, upon the night’s starr’d face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And feel that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour!
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;—then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think,
Till Love and Fame to nothingness do sink.

It is human to fear death, and it is equally human to wish not to think of it- to push the fear far from one’s mind and try to ignore the issue all together. After all, if people spent great amounts of their time dwelling on the inevitable (yet so often unthinkable) fate, would they ever be able to open their hearts and souls entirely and live every moment, in the moment, without regret? Possibly the most daunting aspect of death is the notion of leaving the earth as an unfulfilled soul, without achieving one’s maximum potential. Keats gives a few examples of this particular fear. As a writer, he states the fear of moving on before he is able to document all the ideas within his head, all of the unwritten potential pieces that no one except him will ever be able to produce. This idea could also apply to artists, musicians, or philosophers, anyone with uncommunicated messages currently suppressed within.

This sentiment of unreached potential reminds me of an episode of “The twilight Zone” that I found quite interesting when I was younger, “One for the Angels.” When a personified Death comes to claim the life of a toymaker (understandably unwilling to go along with the plan quietly), Death concedes that there are a few extraordinary conditions that would allow him to remain a part of the living world. These three “extenuating circumstances” reflect three situations when many people feel it would be the most unfortunate to have to move on. The first case for appeal would come about if the candidate for death would leave behind a spouse or family member who would suffer unbearable hardship should the ordeal come to pass. The second circumstance allows extra time to scientists on the verge of major discoveries so that they may complete their projects. The third category of appeal is the one that most directly ties in to the reasons named by Keats at the beginning of his sonnet- “unfinished business of a major nature.” Unfinished business and unachieved goals, the broken dreams and aspirations have no options. They too must die with a person’s body.

As the poem continues, Keats gives further substantiation for his fears. He speaks of love, romance, and his thought that he may never be able to experience the extent of his emotions. This is again, logical. Love wields more power than any sense or expression can convey, and it will invariably produce fear. When a person comes to love something (an opportunity, a lifestyle, another person), to truly love it, in the full meaning of the word, the fear of the loss of said beloved will always exist in some state. Most commonly, this fear will surface only on rare, unfortunate occasions, as a nightmare can completely take reign over a period of sleep, only to be driven away as the light of morning begins to glow. Since love is constantly evolving and growing in its strength, the fear Keats seems to address is the possibility that he will depart from this world before he has felt the depth that only love can reach.

The last lines of the poem change its direction entirely. Throughout much of the beginning, it is simple for the reader to feel compassion and pity towards Keats. As the poem draws to a close, Keats challenges this sympathy. He states that when his fears come to him, he does not shove them into a back corner of his mind and search for distractions in more pleasant areas of his life. He does what so many are unable to, he thinks of them. He dwells upon that which makes him miserable. With fear, as is the case with any persistent problem, it is best to address the matter or forever live with the decision to hide from it. As Keats mulls over his insecurities and terrors, he is able to recognize that the love and fame desired by one man hardly amount to much in the great scheme of life. Life, death, and love will be what they may, different for each. The true key to a fulfilled existence is the understanding of this concept. Fear is inconsequential. It can only create a darker, false reality; it can do nothing to heal or better the existing one.