thistlerose: (West Side Story)
Last night I found myself in bed, reading poetry. Mostly English Renaissance and late 18th century. (Coleridge gets me all hot and bothered sometimes.) Uh, so this morning I decided to list all the Shakespeare I've seen in my life, ever.

Shakespeare I have seen:

Live )


Movies (big screen) )

Movies (filmed for television) )

Adaptations/Meta )

This summer I'm going to see Richard II live. (And possibly Love's Labours Lost, if I feel like it and tickets are still available.) Oh, and I have The Hollow Crown.

Obviously, I need more Shakespeare. I wonder what good film adaptations I've left out. I wonder if there's ever been a really great "Antony and Cleopatra" or "As You Like It."
thistlerose: (Default)
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air:
And like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

_____

Speaking of, I rented PBS's "King Lear" starring Sir Ian McKellen the other night. Excellent stuff. Tremendous acting, lots of violence (the line "out, vile jelly!" will never not chill me to the bone), and a little nudity. Romola Garai was Cordelia, and Sylvester McCoy was the Fool. I didn't recognize any of the other actors.

I love that Sir Ian played Lear as kind of an asshole in the beginning. I like the implication that the evil of Goneril and Regan did not come from nowhere, that there was some emotional abuse. Not that that excuses what they do, but I can be very angry with Lear, and still have him break my heart in the end. *sniffle* Oh, Cordelia.

I love Cordelia. I think she's among my favorite Shakespearean heroines. She's pretty damn fierce.

_____

In my head, I'm making up a sequel to "Armed With Every Precious Failure." I do not know if it will ever make it to the page. Not anytime soon, anyway. I just find myself wondering how their relationship will progress, what sort of snares they'll come across. They're not exactly a couple, but they're not exactly not.

And I think Leonard needs to make it clear that he's not so much "old-fashioned" as at a point in his life where monogamy feels right. And that might change. :)

I do wish my stories had more science fiction elements. Or more science, really.

_____

I don't think I'd want this shower curtain, but it amuses me.
thistlerose: (Shakespeare)
Enter the KING

WESTMORELAND. O that we now had here
But one ten thousand of those men in England
That do no work to-day!

KING. What's he that wishes so?
My cousin Westmoreland? No, my fair cousin;
If we are mark'd to die, we are enow
To do our country loss; and if to live,
The fewer men, the greater share of honour.
God's will! I pray thee, wish not one man more.
By Jove, I am not covetous for gold,
Nor care I who doth feed upon my cost;
It yearns me not if men my garments wear;
Such outward things dwell not in my desires.
But if it be a sin to covet honour,
I am the most offending soul alive.
No, faith, my coz, wish not a man from England.
God's peace! I would not lose so great an honour
As one man more methinks would share from me
For the best hope I have. O, do not wish one more!
Rather proclaim it, Westmoreland, through my host,
That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

_____

If I weren't getting home so late, and if I didn't have a paper due (do I never not have a paper due?) I'd get my Branagh on tonight.

ETA: Historians Reassess the Battle of Agincourt
thistlerose: (bicker bicker)
via the NY Times: William Shakespeare: even sexier than we first thought?

I'm not an art historian and I've only read the Times's article, but that's pretty cool...if it's true.
thistlerose: (princess)
Fucking snow!

It had been predicted, but the sky was so perfectly blue yesterday.

Anyway. Maybe if it lets up later, I'll hike to the bakery because I'm still craving cookies.

Meme: I like books too! )
thistlerose: (CJ)
My attempt to make tamago maki was half successful. I made the rice and I got the tamago to taste about right, but it came out all lopsided because I didn't have a tamago pan, so when I tried to put it all together, nothing doing. But, as I said, it tasted about right. Actually, I think I was supposed to do something else with the rice. Huh. Whatever.

The Milwaukee Shakespeare Company sent me an email, wishing me a happy Saint Crispin's Day, which is tomorrow. So, happy Saint Crispin's Day, my band of brothers and sisters.

The text of the speech

Kenneth Branagh's crowning moment of awesome in the 1985 film of the play

*snicker* From the Daily Kos: One of McCain's campaign advisers voted absentee...for Obama! On purpose.
thistlerose: (bicker bicker)
Happy 444th Birthday, William Shakespeare. I ♥ you.
thistlerose: (cats are crazy)
I found this while Googling cat poems:

Felix Catus, is your taxonomic nomenclature,
an endothermic quadruped carnivorous by nature
Your visual, olfactory and auditory senses
contribute to your hunting skills, and natural defenses.

I find myself intrigued by your subvocal oscillations,
a singular development of cat communications
that obviates your basic hedonistic predilection
for a rhythmic stroking of your fur, to demonstrate affection.

A tail is quite essential for your acrobatic talents;
you would not be so agile if you lacked its counterbalance.
And when not being utilized to aide in locomotion,
it often serves to illustrate the state of your emotion.

O Spot, the complex levels of behaviour you display
connote a fairly well-developed cognitive array.
And though you are not sentient, Spot, and do not comprehend,
I nonetheless consider you a true and valued friend.

By Commander Data - United Federation of Planets

*g*

ETA: Actually, I wonder if this is the actual text. I'm pretty sure obviate (which means to prevent or render unnecessary) is misused here.

I would also like to point out that it's difficult to type when one has both a laptop and a fat kitty on one's lap.
_____

[livejournal.com profile] remixredux08 is live! I didn't write anything this year, but I'm looking forward to reading.
thistlerose: (protest)
I can't let the sun set on National Poetry Month without subjecting you to Dorothy Parker.

Comment

Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
A medley of extemporanea;
And love is a thing that can never go wrong;
And I am Marie of Roumania.


Inventory

Four be the things I am wiser to know:
Idleness, sorrow, a friend, and a foe.

Four be the things I'd been better without:
Love, curiosity, freckles, and doubt.

Three be the things I shall never attain:
Envy, content, and sufficient champagne.

Three be the things I shall have till I die:
Laughter and hope and a sock in the eye.


Indian Summer

In youth, it was a way I had
To do my best to please,
And change, with every passing lad,
To suit his theories.

But now I know the things I know,
And do the things I do;
And if you do not like me so,
To hell, my love, with you!

*

I ♥ her.
thistlerose: (cats are love)
I stayed home from work today because my back was so bad last night that I didn't get any sleep. Went to the chiropractor. He used a laser on me. I wish I'd seen it, but I was face-down. A laser. I think that's cool, but then, I'm a big dork. On Wednesday it's the regular doctor. Why am I falling apart like this? All in the world I wanted to do was lose weight before my reunion. *sigh*

_____

It's the last day of National Poetry Month, so I have two poems for you. They're both about cats because all cats are poetic - except for my William. :)

The Cat and the Moon
by William Buter Yeats

The cat went here and there
and the moon spun round like a top,
and the nearest kin of the moon,
the creeping cat, looked up.
Black Minnaloushe stared at the moon,
for, wander and wail as he would,
the pure cold light in the sky
troubled his animal blood.

Minnaloushe runs in the grass
lifting his delicate feet.
Do you dance, Minnaloushe, do you dance?
When two close kindred meet,
what better than call a dance?
Maybe the moon may learn,
tired of that courtly fashion,
a new dance turn.

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
from moonlit place to place,
the sacred moon overhead
has taken a new phase.
Does Minnaloushe know that his pupils
will pass from change to change,
and that from round to crescent,
from crescent to round they range?

Minnaloushe creeps through the grass
alone, important and wise,
and lifts to the changing moon
his changing eyes.


Cat's Dream
by Pablo Neruda


How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings--
a series of burnt circles--
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger's great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.


(Translated by Alastair Reid)

_____

And these are the stories that I posted in April:

Double Twist of Fate or a Melody

Star Wars | PG-13 | Han/Leia | "Han won't say it, but he likes the braids."

A Sure Cure for the Blues

Harry Potter/The Smurfs | PG | Snape & Gargamel | Snape's ancestor needs his help in dealing with a few small, blue, problems.

Wedding Night

Prydain | PG | Taran/Eilonwy | He's perfectly willing to be romantic, if she'll only let him get a word in edgewise.

Wake Up Slow (The Second Time Around Remix)

Buffyverse | PG | Xander/Buffy | Remix of Two Words by [livejournal.com profile] liz_marcs | "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."
thistlerose: (Japanese shrine)
...have some Japanese poetry. These short poems were composed in the early eighth century by Kakinomoto-no-Hitomaro, and appear in the Man'yoshu. Context: he'd just been ordered to leave his beloved wife, Yusami, and return to the capital. Translation by Takashi Kojima.

Over the eastern fields
Pours the mellow golden light
Of the rising sun.
In the western sky, the moon
Declines behind the hills.


'Tis often said,
That the Tsuno Coast
Of the Sea of Iwami
Has no sandy shore
Nor a good lagoon.
Even though there is no good bay
Nor lagoon,
Whales abound off the coast.
And green sleek seaweed
Grows aundant in the sea.
Wings of winds at dawn
Wings of foamy waves at eve
Bring green smooth seaweed
To the pebbly strand.


Sorely was I grieved
When I had to leave my wife,
Who oft twined round me
Smooth and tender as seaweed,
Which with wind and wave,
Drifts upon the sea.


As I look back
Toward my darling's home,
At each turn of the road
Over this mountain,
Lower and lower falls the town,
Higher and higher the mountains rise.
O you Mountain which I climb,
Become flat!
Let me once glimpse
My lovely wife,
Downcast
As the wilting summer grass,
Pining after me.


Through the trees,
Can my darling wife at home
See me wave my arms,
Bidding her my last farewell,
From the top of Mt. Takatsuno.


At the top of the hill
Overgrown with bamboo grass
Rustling in the wind,
How I yearn for my dear wife
Left alone at home.


Rapidly
My gray horse has carried me
To the mountaintop
To the height of floating clouds,
Far past my sweet one's abode.


O you tinted leaves!
Cease your swirling about.
Through the vista of trees,
Pray, let me have a glimpse
Of my darling love at home.
thistlerose: (Joseph (MINE!))
Oh, Richard. Oh, Macbeth. Two of my favorite Shakespearean villains, neither of whom were as wicked in reality as they are in literature. But, historical or not, they're still lots of fun. I particularly like these bits:

From 3 Henry VI:

RICHARD:

I'll drown more sailors than the mermaid shall;
I'll slay more gazers than the basilisk;
I'll play the orator as well as Nestor,
Deceive more slily than Ulysses could,
And, like a Sinon, take another Troy.
I can add colours to the chameleon,
Change shapes with Proteus for advantages,
And set the murderous Machiavel to school.
Can I do this, and cannot get a crown?
Tut, were it farther off, I'll pluck it down.


From Macbeth:

MACBETH:

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.
thistlerose: (Henry V/muse of fire)
Happy Birthday, William Shakespeare!

Here is one of my favorite speeches from Romeo & Juliet. I know a number of you hate this play, but I love it, so please, either enjoy the pretty or scroll by.

JULIET:

Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus' lodging: such a wagoner
As Phaëthon would whip you to the west,
And bring in cloudy night immediately.
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night,
That runaways' eyes may wink and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk'd of and unseen.
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties; or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night. Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play'd for a pair of stainless maidenhoods.
Hood my unmann'd blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle, till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night, come, Romeo, come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow on a raven's back.
Come, gentle night, come, loving, black-brow'd night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when I shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night
And pay no worship to the garish sun.
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess'd it, and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy'd: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo's name speaks heavenly eloquence.

_____

*sigh*

I love that. Apart from the utter gorgeousness of the language, I love what it's about. Juliet is excited about having sex with her husband, and that is - as far as we can tell - totally fine with Shakespeare.
thistlerose: (quite this)
Want to hear me read Middle English rather badly? *g* Then get thee hence. For National Poetry Month, [livejournal.com profile] hhbarmaid is having guest readers do voice posts on her journal, and for this afternoon, I read the very beginning of Chaucer's Canterbury Tales.

I used to have a fairly good Middle English accent, but it's been about seven and a half years since my grade depended on it, so...yeah. But there's a translation.

Now I'm going to make the most of what's left of this beautiful April day and ryde to the gymme as ol' Geoff might say.
thistlerose: (Edinburgh/roads go ever on)
One poem, and then I'm off. I didn't mean to sleep this late.


This is my favorite Burns poem. I first heard it sung a few months before I left for Scotland for the first time, and didn't hear it again until I was riding through the western Highlands on my second trip there. As far as Burns' poems go, it's totally readable. "Ilka" means "every." Everything else should be pretty easy to decipher.



Ae Fond Kiss

Robert Burns



AE fond kiss, and then we sever;
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him
While the star of hope she leaves him?
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me,
Dark despair around benights me.

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy;
Naething could resist my Nancy;
But to see her was to love her,
Love but her, and love for ever.

Had we never loved sae kindly,
Had we never loved sae blindly,
Never met—or never parted,
We had ne'er been broken-hearted.

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest!
Fare thee weel, thou best and dearest!
Thine be ilka joy and treasure,
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure!

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever!
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever!
Deep in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee,
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee!
thistlerose: (not normal)
*headdesk*

Two more hours until the weekend.

My new sweater is so lovely. I got it from Sundance, Robert Redford's clothing/furniture store, and OMG, it's like being hugged all over by Robert Redford. His furniture is made from recycled wood. Isn't that cool? There's a bed I like that comes from old pickle barrels.

Here, have another poem:

How Not To Write a Sonnet

She sat before the empty PC screen
Her brain was like a field beset by drought
She cried, “Alas, alack, the screen stays clean;
‘Tis due next day, but talent have I naught!”
She said, “Oh God, I needs must cogitate!
I’ll drink caffeine to help me stay awake.
Oh why, oh why did I procrastinate?
Now all night I must slave this po’m to make.”
She sent burnt offerings to Will the Bard
And prayed that he would send a little hint
For writing sonnets really can be hard,
like starting fires with neither steel nor flint.

Now here’s a tip, and you should dwell upon’t:
When in a crunch, bribe friends to write your sonn’t.
thistlerose: (mountains of scotland)
*sigh* The Remix is currently at 1,400 words and I've just realized I'm only at page 3 out of 8. I still don't think it will be much over 2,000 words in the end. I like it at the moment. I feel like it's becoming mine.

Here's a poem for you. I haven't been posting as faithfully as some of the people on my flist (that is to say, at all) but I've had this one on my mind for the past couple of days. It's one of my favorites:

Kubla Khan
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
a stately pleasure-dome decree,
where Alph, the sacred river, ran
through caverns measureless to man
down to a sunless sea,
so twice five miles of fertile ground
with walls and towers were girdled round.
and there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
where blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree.
And here were forests as ancient as the hills,
enfolding sunny spots of greenery.


But O! That deep romantic chasm which slanted,
down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover.
A savage place! As holy and enchanted
as e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted
by woman wailing for her demon lover.
And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
as if this Earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
a mighty fountain momently was forced,
amid whose swift half-intermitted burst,
huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail,
and 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever,
it flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion,
through wood and dale the sacred river ran.
Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,
and sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean.
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from afar
ancestral voices prophesying war!


The shadow of the dome of pleasure
floated midway on the waves
Where was heard the mingled measure
from the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device
a sunny pleasure dome with caves of ice.
A damsel with a dulcimer
in a vision once I saw.
It was an Abyssinian maid,
and on her dulcimer she played,
singing of mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
her symphony and song.
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
that with music loud and long,
I would build that dome in air!
That sunny dome! Those caves of ice!
and all who heard should see them there!
and all should cry, Beware! Beware!
his flashing eyes! his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
and close your eyes with holy dread!
for he on honey-dew hath fed,
and drunk the milk of Paradise.

Speaking of Romantic poets. I posted this a couple of years ago, but it might amuse you: How to Be a Romantic Poet (A Guide).
thistlerose: (last unicorn)
It's 81 degrees. What on earth?

My spine is nudging a nerve and that's why I'm in pain. That's the theory, anyway. Ow.

I went to see The Merchant of Venice at the Guthrie last night. It was a good production. I'm not on board with moving the action to the eighteenth century, but the costumes were lovely. I'd read the play before, but never studied it, and now I have a thought or two about it. My thoughts. )
thistlerose: (I <333 Scotland)
We're totally not supposed to, but I couldn't resist copying this gem from one of the papers I graded this afternoon:

"I don't think money truely [sic] makes Bill Gates any happier than people living on the streets."

O RLY?


But now it's the weekend and I can sleep late tomorrow, and I've got a hair appointment, and then on Sunday I'm going to work at the shelter for a couple of hours. Kitties!

Also, my paycheck came today and DUDE. They took out 100+ dollars in taxes! Curse them. Still, I'm feeling less destitute. I mustn't buy Firefly. Even though it's only $25 at Amazon. I mustn't. I mustn't. Even though I had a dream about River and Simon the other night. I mustn't...


From [livejournal.com profile] ragdoll:

This is how it works: Comment on this entry and I will give you a letter. Write ten words beginning with that letter in your journal, including an explanation what the word means to you and why, and than pass out letters to those who want to play along.

H is for... )
thistlerose: (Henry V/muse of fire)
It's not new, but I just found it and it pinged my inner Shakespeare/Plantagenet-lover geek. [livejournal.com profile] poisoninjest did Richard III (Shakespeare's play, not the historical Richard) South Park style. Such cute little psychos.

dlkJJHSDKLJJHSd

She did Hamlet, too.

*is dead like the dead people at the end of the play*

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