Poetic Play

Today I offer a few poems. The first one is a copy of William Shakespeare's Sonnet 18, followed by my parody of his poem titled, Shall I Compare Thee to a Winter's Day: Or, Just Drop Dead. The final poem is The Artichoke

SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A SUMMER’S DAY?: SONNET 18

Shall I compare thee to a Summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And Summer's lease hath all too short a date:
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And oft' is his gold complexion dimm'd;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature's changing course untrimm'd:
But thy eternal Summer shall not fade
Nor lose possession of that fair thou owest;
Nor shall Death brag thou wanderest in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou growest:

So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.

William Shakespeare

SHALL I COMPARE THEE TO A WINTER’S DAY: OR, JUST DROP DEAD!

Shall I compare thee to a winter’s day?
Thou art more chilly, bitter, and extreme.
One look from you, one testy word convey
Such stinging slander one can only scream.
Yet sometimes even wintry days abate
And grant relief from frigid, freezing times,
Bring milder days that do not aggravate
And give one hope for softer, warmer climes.
But thy eternal winter does not fade
Nor lose intensity of harsh ill will.
My only hope’s for death to grant thee shade,
Deliver me from thy infernal swill.

So long as thee can breathe or thee can see,
So long lives this. I hope it torments thee.

Susan Matthewson
Copyright 2009


THE ARTICHOKE

The artichoke has no fashion sense,
Dressed in olive drab splotched with brown,
Like a raw recruit in jungle fatigues.

Camouflage is second nature to the artichoke.
It hides its tender heart and sophisticated tastes
Under a tough-guy exterior,
Thick-skinned, waxy petals and
Thorn-tipped leaves in overlapping layers
Like rows of shark’s teeth.

Overly sensitive to criticism,
The artichoke has a prickly personality,
It’s given to barbed responses
From its sharp-tongued thistles,
Stilletto-like bayonets fixed to the tips
Of its concentric leaves.

The artichoke is sturdy.
A hefty compact globe,
It looks like the accidental offspring
Of an amorous adventure
Between a cactus plant and a pinecone.

Instensely private,
The artichoke is hard to get to know.
It demands patience and pampering,
A thorough manicure
To prune its sharp edges
And a luxuriant lemon-juice massage.
A steam bath eases its defensive posture;
Its uptight petals relax,
Recline like sun worshippers on tilted lounges.
It shows its softer side then,
Becomes vulnerable to touch,
Secure in offering up its secret self,
Its tender-hearted core.

Copyright 2009 Susan Matthewson