Meyran Kraus

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

This anagram of a sonnet by Shakespeare unfolds an interesting story. A suicide note left by a lady poet to her husband, it was later discovered to be something else entirely. Can you find the secret?

When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment.
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky:
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory.
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay,
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.

Aha, my grief that coats me in thick mist
Invokes unfaithful thoughts, of this I'm certain.
Sweet husband, how I wish my weary fist
That held these ropes would gently draw the curtains;
Instead, the pieces that create this scene -
The gun I grasp, the fretful strain I've beckoned -
Convene to cry: "How could he, my heart's Tween,
Forget my hints to watch me every second?"...
Oh, head not to the beaten course of guilt,
For when my Grim's nigh, sanity retreats.
Incessantly, I crushed what you've rebuilt,
Then wrote my fate - to leave life incomplete.
Though my heart needs to pen an ease for you,
The note bears none... but only an adieu.

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An anagram of a sonnet by Keats, heavily influenced by a certain problem I had while writing it. I even encrypted this problem in the anagram. Can you find it?

When I have Fears that I may Cease to Be
John Keats

When I have fears that I may cease to be
Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain,
Before high-piled books, in charactery,
Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain;
When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face,
Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance,
And think that I may never live to trace
Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance;
And when I feel, fair creature of an hour,
That I shall never look upon thee more,
Never have relish in the faery power
Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore
Of the wide world I stand alone, and think
Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

The Hunger of a Common Mind
Mey K.

Macabre scoff shall haunt his heavy head
By nightfall, while the verse remains undone.
How could he have forgotten not to tread
A barren plain, where Garlands are long gone?
The fire of lives will reach him in the dark;
Tones through the open window tease his ears:
A cry, a hearty cheer, a high-pitched bark -
Those varied moments of an outer sphere;
And yet, no spark of life there, on his page.
Is it not Noble Art for which he yearned?
The joy that led him in his finest age
Became vain Void, in which heat never burned.
One insignificant, no-talent hack
Would flee the skill, and feebly vote for lack.

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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