Mr Shouty Person, the Sonneteer

Zum Befehl, Herr Oberst!

At some time in the past, and more recently, I’ve had the distinct impression that a lot of sonnets can be quite shouty sorts of things. They seem to have a high percentage of imperatives, which the poet employs to berate the object of his desire like some mere servant.

Samuel Daniel’s first sonnet to Delia isn’t so bad. He doesn’t start shouting until the third quatrain. In the second sonnet, he’s shouting from the very beginning “Go, wailing verse… Present the image… Witness your father’s grief…” Nag, nag, nag.

It’s not just Daniel because I’m sure this is a phenomenon I’ve noticed in passing before. Perhaps the shouty ones were written by schoolboys (although they were probably 16-year-olds at university; same thing back in the 16th and 17th centuries), who aren’t known for their moderation.

The next day. I thought I’d use the first sonnet from Michael Drayton’s Idea series as the next sonnet to torment my little darlings. The qualitative difference in writing between Daniel and Drayton in noticeable. As I was reading on Bartleby in the antiquated Cambridge History of English and American Lit., English sonneteers aren’t exactly famous for their originality, and I’ve been wondering whether Daniel was producing inept translations in which he tries a little too hard to follow the original.

Daniel’s fourth sonnet to Delia feels a little muddled.

These plaintive verse, the posts of my desire,
Which haste for succour to her slow regard,
Bear not report of any slender fire,
Forging a grief to win a fame’s reward.
Nor are my passions limned for outward hue,
For that no colours can depaint my sorrows;
Delia herself, and all the world may view
Best in my face where cares have tilled deep furrows.
No bays I seek to deck my mourning brow,
O clear-eyed rector of the holy hill!
My humble accents bear the olive bough
Of intercession but to move her will.
These lines I use t’ unburden mine own heart;
My love affects no fame nor ’steems of art.

The first part seems to be about some sort of artifice (“forge” here seems to mean “create a fake”). Then there’s something about how painting would fail to capture the poet’s mood, which can be seen better in his face. He doesn’t want praise for his efforts because he’s writing for Delia’s grace (as Chaucer would’ve said). The poet isn’t after the Man-Booker Prize.

I’m not really convinced that this is anything but clunky and strained. It lacks a feeling of cohesion even if the basic idea, that the sonnets are an expression of love and not an attempt to win literary repute, is clear once you’ve waded through it.