#phillip sidney

[poeticcollections-blog]

So he calls you star.

He cuts out your black eyes,

Your quick tongue,

Casts you into the vacuum,

And accuses you of coldness,

Of distance.

You burn in blackness

Bright as your eyes,

Without oxygen, in silence.

Come.

Crash back to earth,

Scatter into star stuff.

Burn paper, ink, words, men,

Then let him try to call you Stella.

— “Fourteen lines to Stella, whoever she may be”

[etourdit]

Posts about Sidney, Sir Phillip written by upinvermont

[wetogetherforever21-blog]

Either I'll find a way, or I'll make one

Phillip Sidney

[eastbayantiliving]

Advice from a Sonnet

Sad but true: often, when I read poetry or prose dating before 1800 (excepting Shakespeare, of course), I expect that the sentiments the author  expresses will be none to relevant. We are so far removed from those times, places, and people, I just assume that the writer could speak only of his or her own first world problems and nothing of mine. And, almost every time, I am wrong. The following sonnet is by Sir Phillip Sidney, a poet whose work is considered canonical by lit professors everywhere, and whose musings are very much part of the Anti-Living dogma.

Sonnet #1 from Astrophil and Stella

Loving in truth, and fain in verse my love to show, That she (dear She) might take some pleasure of my pain: Pleasure might cause her read, reading might make her know, Knowledge might pity win, and pity grace obtain;

I sought fit words to paint the blackest face of woe, Studying inventions fine, her wits to entertain: Oft turning others' leaves, to see if thence would flow Some fresh and fruitful showers upon my sun-burn'd brain.

But words came halting forth, wanting Invention's stay, Invention, Nature's child, fled step-dame Study's blows, And others' feet still seem'd but strangers in my way.

Thus, great with child to speak, and helpless in my throes, Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite-- "Fool," said my Muse to me, "look in thy heart and write."

[spreadthehype]

Yet thus much curse I must send you in the behalf of all poets; that while you live, you live in love, and you never get favour for lacking skill of a sonnet, and when you die, your memory die from the earth for want of an epitaph.

Sir Phillip Sidney - The Defence of Poesy

[nickyvdwatt]

The National Portrait Gallery

Today I have learnt: 1) the benches in the tudor gallery are quite comfy 2) phillip sidney is ridiculously attractive 3) primary school kids are ridiculously good at drawing 4) if you talk to the teachers for half an hour on elizabeth's relationship with dudley, they will ask you to teach their class 5) primary school kids love me