In Shakespeare’s Style: To Be Romantic or Not to Be–and Thus Be Rational…to Think…To Control…

To Be Romantic or Not To Be

In The Style of Will Shakespeare

To be romantic or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the soul to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous passion,
Or to take arms against a sea of desire,
And by opposing end them?

To think: To control;
To rationalize: And by rationalize to say we end
The heartache and the thousand natural desires
That flesh is heir to, ’tis a discipline
Devoutly to be wish’d.

To think, to control;
To control perchance to prevent heartbreak: ay, there’s the rub;
For in that protecting from heartache what love may we miss
When we have resisted opening to the beauty before us.
Must give us pause: there’s the regret of long lost loves

For who would bear the whips and scorns of rejected love,
The risk unbalanced, the outcome failing,
The pangs of unrequited love: None but the romantic.
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
Save for the romantic.

The romantic that enterprises of great pith and moment
And in this regard their currents turn awry,
And win in the name of love.

*

Bt Tessa Saks and Will Shakespeare

In The Style Of

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Tell Me

Tell me the wind is but a whimper—

Low the flame that leaps the grates;

Tell me the lightening’s but a simple

Evidence of starlit fate.

On the rooftop beats the rain,

Bend my ear

Far from fear

And tell me spring will come again.

Tell me the grass will green as pure—

Not from fear the lambs are bleating;

Tell me the sun will shine as sure—

Not from the darkness sleeting.

Thunder breaks beyond the door,

Hold me tight

Far from night

And tell me we will love once more.

By Barbara Shook

A Forbidden Love?

Love Poem

And the great looks of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.

 

Imagine -enjoying a forbidden love–never acknowledged.
Until then. Finally.

Is it just me or do you also wonder if she actually had a long hidden love?
I write tormented poems of longing–

Will someone, someday, look back on my words and imagine they spoke of my own pain?
Would they assume I am living my words?
The irony is I am not in anguish. I’m happy. Completely happy.
Or so I think.
So I feel.

But perhaps there is something–
deep below the surface–
that causes me to remember longing and pain so clearly.
To want more.
To remember pleasures beyond words despite their inherent pain.
Any thoughts?

 

Taken from:

I Have Loved Hours At Sea
by Sara Teasdale, 1884-1933

I have loved hours at sea, gray cities,
The fragile secret of a flower,
Music, the making of a poem
That gave me heaven for an hour.

First stars above a snowy hill,
Voices of people kindly and wise,
And the great looks of love, long hidden,
Found at last in meeting eyes.

 

 

So I looked her up and she has an amazing story of lost love.
The man she loved didn’t marry her as he was a poet with no means to support her.
Instead, she married another poet. (A wealthy one!)
Later she divorced her husband and moved two blocks away from her first love,
who was now married with children.
He commits suicide and two years later she commits suicide.

Brokenhearted?
Hidden love?
Tormented by impossible love?

What do you think?

 

Love Poem: To Celia

Love Poem Tessa Saks
To Celia
by Ben Jonson

Drink to me only with thine eyes,
And I will pledge thee with mine;
Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
And I’ll not look for wine.
The thirst that from the soul doth rise,
Doth ask a drink divine:
But might I of Jove’s nectar sup,
I would not change for thine.

I sent thee late a rosy wreath,
Not so much honoring thee,
As giving it a hope, that there
It could not withered be.
But thou thereon did’st only breathe,
And sent’st it back to me;
Since when it grow and smells, I swear,
Not of itself, but thee.