Александр Чирозиди

Страна: Казахстан

Я поэт, страстью к сонетной форме обязанный не только могучему У.Шекспиру, но и всем тем, кто остался в его великой тени. Я крепко верю в то, что не все ещё сказано в сонете, и потому своим делом желаю возродить эту изысканную, освященную временем поэтическую традицию.

Country: Kazakhstan

Profoundly inspired by the unparalleled genius of William Shakespeare and his other illustrious predecessors, I, too, chose to «unlock» my own heart for those enamoured of Elizabethan poetry in the form of an English sonnet. Unfortunately, the latter is out of fashion these days. And yet there seems to be still much coveting to be told in this time-honoured poetic form, which is precisely why I wish to attempt its revival by presenting my own sonnets to their prospective readers.

Отрывок из сонет

 

SONNET I

Possess’d is all my heart of woeful bliss —

Since that both bliss and woe are her two names —

No sooner warm’d than cruelly sear’d it is,

So mad in love by love’s still madder flames.

Yet mind’s too loath heart’s fullness to eclipse

And as she stings, it reasons thus with me:

‘Sweet physic dwells on those empoison’d lips!

Thy soul’s disease is past philosophy.’

Ay, piety droops where these passions rise

And so, be it my shame, so much I dote

On her light-footed gait that where she hies

I hie t’end life with life’s sole antidote.

    So sails my bark for her that ever becketh;

    Though doom’d to wreck, of peril never recketh.

 

 

SONNET III

How craves my mind with gentle lines to limn

Her gentler lines’ alluring excellence.

I would fain praise these with an ageless hymn

Love breathes upon the lyre of man’s sense,

Yet those before me had enwreath’d of old

In flow’ry speech their nymph-like ladies, which,

Their outward gifts oft having thus extoll’d,

Made poor the word in making those too rich.

Thus being robb’d of lush similitude,

I’ll rob no flow’r of its own scent or tinct:

Why wrap in rosy robes her lily nude

If these once fair turn’d black by poets ink’d?

   I shall be mute, then she’ll best hear my part —

   ‘Mong many heartless tongues one tongueless heart.

 

 

SONNET IV

So oft didst thou touch stars with puzzled stare

But fed not thy discourse with things divine.

Of all those sparkling worlds dream’d none to heir,

And heir’d none but a dream, a placeless shrine

Where timeless Death hath seal’d thee up for aye,

And where my thoughts, like pilgrims, hie by night

T’affront anew old fondness of thine eye

Deceiving sense with truthfulness of sight.

So nature-like in wasted tinct of life

Thy former self my fancies reinstate

That drowsy mind engages in no strife

Foul truth from fair untruth to separate.

    So, sleep, poor sense, that dead alive may seem,

    Ensteep’d in slumb’rous Lethe of a dream.

 

 

SONNET XI

Pray, never say thou henceforth art not free,

Since Hymen’s bands enlink’d us even faster. 

Say, love, thou servest Love alone, not me,

And he grants me no right to be thy master.

Nor thee my mistress shall I wrongly call

For selfsame reason, who art Love’s fairest gift

For me as I for thee, in neither’s thrall,

Abusing neither’s treasure with unthrift.

O, were I covetous (that should’st thou fear!),

I’d tangle love in many a hateful knot.

I hold thee not, for I hold thee most dear;

He loves possessing who possess’d Love not.

    Then leave me, love, when love hath left thee, lest

    Thou prove but faithful to thine oaths unblest.

 

 

SONNET XII

Let no tongue say these rhymes thy parts extol

Beyond the plainer lineaments of truth!

The fairest hue my pen may lend thy soul,

Still seems to foul it in some way uncouth.

Let no tongue say so, nor thine own so let,

That oft chides mine for swearing none outdid

Thy matchless match ‘twixt face and heart; and yet,

The more it chides, the less it should be chid.

O, let thy truth find love’s own truth to see

That I speak true; and if I’m truly wrong,

Then (faultless thou!) the fault lies all with me

To whom things seem so fair to thee belong.

       And blest I am thus being flaw’d in sense,

       Since out of that flaw grows such excellence.

 

 

SONNET XXIV

No, they look not with eyes who see with hearts

(‘Tis not with sight thy sight I love so true):

‘Neath thy sweet looks mine sees thy sightless parts,

Whilst others’ blind to those of thee in view.

Those hearts I know too well by ill complexion

That blackens each fair it doth encounter with;

Even those who look askance on pure perfection

And with fault-finding sight find fault therewith.

From these I lock’d my chest, lest none like gazed

Into the privy chambers of my heart.

There lie my riches not to be apprais’d

By envy’s false report or critic’s art!

     Thy beauty’s worth love’s eye alone may tell,

     Though thou be hated for being lov’d so well.

 

 

 

SONNET XXVII

Even as the pale-fac’d mistress of the night

Doth queenly walk in her ethereal sphere,

Each earthly sea that meets her heavenly light

Grows straight inflam’d by her aspect austere.

So, being enamour’d on her vestal hue,

The swollen waves their restful beds forswear;

And tempted so, contempt on earth they spew,

In surging into the inviting air.

Even thus my blood affected is by thee,

In whose deep streams lascivious monsters breed

To dream unchastely on thy chastity

In Sanity’s sound sleep, beyond his heed.

      O, thou that made us, teach our lust to cloy,

      Lest it our true proportions should destroy.

 

 

SONNET XXIX

What though a sin thou deem’st those dreams of mine

That restless youth to spirit doth impart?

My stealthier shadow may still merge with thine

In virtuous union, substances apart;

Whereby these pretty rhymes, one by another,

(Fair offspring of thy beauty) are born all.

Since thou beget’st them, I must prove their mother

And by thy shadow blest, be pleas’d withal;

Until, perchance, in your chaste self these ope

The flaming gates of nature, as you read.

So my bright wit may wake my darker hope

To know thee better by a well-known deed.

     And then may that thy sin aton’d for be

     By beauty thou shalt thus conceive of me.

 

 

SONNET XLV

What is’t I see, dream’s curtains drawn asunder?

There enters she to sweet nocturnal theme;

In night bedight, adream, enwrapp’d in wonder,

She treads on gossamer of mine own dream.

O, blessed heart, beat not so ‘gainst my will

Lest thy wild clamour ope my ports of light!

In dream’s penumbra she looks queenlier still,

And I to her, besides, seem kingly quite!

So let her, too, stay a dream away from me,

Oblivious of the world, of none else ‘ware;

Dream on, my queen, and I will dream on thee

In this frail realm we strangely thus may share!

     Dream on, if not for thine, then for my sake:

     My dream must also end as thou dost wake.