Meyran Kraus

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

Shakespeare's weather-themed sonnet is anagrammed into a series of 4 seasonal sonnets, each with its fitting acrostic.

To me, fair friend, you never can be old,
For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,
Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,
In process of the seasons have I seen,
Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green.
Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,
Steal from his figure, and no pace perceived;
So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,
Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived:
For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:
Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

Such lust you wake with sunlight as your suit!
Unyielding rays gave you their glow, it seems.
My raw desire, once this bashful fruit,
Matured and ripened under fervent beams.
Endure, Oh cheery fire-sprite of June!
Relieve this heart bewitched with moody air;
Breathe in your kiss the awesome heat of dunes
To soothe my cheeks, then tease them with your hair.
Don't hide away or fear this fevered dare;
Can heaven reach you if you merely yearn?
None can repress the force of passion's flare;
If we were doomed to burn, then let us burn!
Come, flame, consume these bodies firmly pressed -
Beneath the ash, our seed should prosper best.

As fierce September winds of early morn
Unleash their murmurs to the misty air,
Their northbound puffs, with impudence and scorn,
Unravelling your finely-braided hair,
My peace becomes one troubled reverie.
Now that the summer cheer, so brief, has faded,
I see your comely features, once woe-free,
Bear haunted outlines, sane while strained and jaded.
But when I pause those thoughts of yesterday,
It strikes me that these worries have no need:
Your eyes survey me in your feisty way
And every fear which bothered me recedes.
Though each of us treads through this season sole,
The spark of life within you keeps us whole.

Where are those summer days or autumn nights,
I often muse when feebly we embrace
Near hearth in vain, then sense some noise with fright -
These storms of ice which feud outside our place.
Each week we suffer January's flurry;
Recluse and hidden, buried under frost.
You're pained to see my rhymes are bleak and blurry;
It seems my flair for poetry is lost...
And yet, I care not for the poet's duty:
What purpose has this insincere device
If you're beside me? Odes shan't match your beauty.
Your heartbeat near my own dissolved the ice.
Though Weather, heinous foe, shrieks high above,
Deep underneath, these roots will feed our love.

So many joyous birds soar through the sky!
Purer than pure, their cheerful chirps and tunes
Rush by the handsome house, then flutter high
In this real cherished, mid-March afternoon.
New flowers everywhere, like wide-eyed fairies,
Grace Nature's blouse and douse it with perfume...
I meet this blossom's hues, this petal airy:
The cherry tree, once faint and weak, now blooms.
You see, my fair-eyed bride, the year flew by;
Four seasons came and waned before our eyes,
And every time affection seemed to die
You've shown me that a true one never dies.
The future's here, my wife, it has begun:
At last, our love produced this precious son.

Return to Meyran Kraus Index

The anagram has a time theme: it contains 365 letters in 12 lines, and each line's letter count matches the number of days in its corresponding month (line 1 = January and has 31 letters, line 2 = February and has 28 letters etc.)

Additionaly, a diagonal acrostic (the 1st letter of the 1st line, the 2nd of the 2nd line etc.) spells out the phrase 'Wheels of time'.

The Oscar Wilde poem 'Les Silhouettes'

The sea is flecked with bars of grey,
The dull dead wind is out of tune,
And like a withered leaf the moon
Is blown across the stormy bay.

Etched clear upon the pallid sand
Lies the black boat: a sailor boy
Clambers aboard in careless joy
With laughing face and gleaming hand.

And overhead the curlews cry,
Where through the dusky upland grass
The young brown-throated reapers pass,
Like silhouettes against the sky.

    When idle shadows wrap me in the night,
    THeir lucid hush a brutal lullaby,
   I fEel a horrid woe that grabs me tight
   As lEngthy hours pass so sluggishly.
   If onLy I could have just one more week -
A day, a Second - near her brittle grace,
  To kiss Or pat, at ease, her pretty cheek
  As we proFess the cheer in our embrace...
   As ScarleT dusk puts on a dowdy Black,
 I hide here In the coldness of that bed.
Feast, Agony! My Sweet will not be back;
 It all has gonE so old and dull and dead.

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Christina Rossetti's poem 'Listening' is processed in a 'Holy Tango' fashion: It's anagrammed into 3 poems regarding 3 anagrams of her name, which also parodize the structure of her poems 'Death-Watches', 'Sappho' and 'When I Am Dead, My Dearest', respectively.

Christina Rossetti

She listened like a cushat dove
That listens to its mate alone:
She listened like a cushat dove
That loves but only one.

Not fair as men would reckon fair,
Nor noble as they count the line:
Only as graceful as a bough,
And tendrils of the vine:
Only as noble as sweet Eve,
Your ancestress and mine.

And downcast were her dovelike eyes,
And downcast was her tender cheek;
Her pulses fluttered like a dove
To hear him speak.

Christina Rossetti
Traits in Ostriches

One ostrich leers with vacant eyes,
Then heaves its beak and starts to peck
At everyone who wanders by
That arched and dauntless neck.
Even a nervous bull would seem restrained
Near something so insane.

The cloven feet are in demand,
Since our plain numskull does not fly,
Yet that whole tale of head-in-sand
Alleged a woeful lie.
Those souls are fools, yet like not being dead.
I love those knuckleheads.

Christina Rossetti
The Artist's Incisor

I cry at dawn, and feel so bleak
Each sour time I cut my cheek.
I sob all day and sob at dusk
To feel a yet uneven tusk.
O Blessed Lord! A spell resolve!
How has the dental mess evolved?
One fang so normal, and a twin -
Unruly dweller, on the chin!
I haven't left the desk in weeks,
An audience I do not seek,
Yet, as I pen the verses here,
I long to generate fresh leers,
To travel in a side-show clan
And use the tooth on tuna cans.

Christina Rossetti
I Can't Resist His Rot

Long past your death, Beloved,
You are enticing me.
I want to hold the sullen flesh
As sweet as ripened Brie.
Few understand love's forces,
The everlasting drives...
Ah, no, I'd see no a skeleton;
To me, you are alive.

I shall not feel the coldness;
I shall not heed a creak;
And I shall sense no nausea:
No reason to be weak.
The wet, uncovered casket
Emits the stench of skunk,
And yet, I want to cuddle by
My larva-laden hunk.

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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