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19 March 2010

Real People in Poetry

I have learned that sonnets are made of fourteen lines, a specific rhyme scheme, and a

distinct rhythm pattern. I have also learned that the general theme of a sonnet is love and

death – it pictures the struggles between love and death, how to eternize love, how to interpret

or face death. They mostly idealize the object of love; they describe the perfect goddess, the

perfect scenery, the perfect love. But I have also learned that not all sonnets are like that, they

do not all follow the same exact recipe. In “Sonnet 130”, for example, Shakespeare describes

his mistress, not his goddess, and he makes sure to point out her far-from-perfect

characteristics. In “Those Winter Sundays”, Robert Hayden describes what his father used to do

on cold winter Sundays, not about great achievements and the impossible. Those are examples

of sonnets, but the non-idealistic kind. They both do have fourteen lines, but still, when

comparing the two I cited above, what on earth would “Sonnet 130” from William Shakespeare

written in 1609 have in common with “Those Winter Sundays” from Robert Hayden written in

1962, over 350 years later? Real people; real love.

And what do I mean by “real people”? Just ordinary people, the kind we see every day.

The kind that wake up in the morning after hitting the alarm clock and still in their pajamas and

slippers, drag their feet to the kitchen to grab a cup of coffee to help finish waking up. The kind

that, after picking up their kids from school, stop off at the supermarket and, while standing in

line trying to keep the kids quiet, think about what to make for dinner once the groceries are

put away. The kind that long for the end of the work week to simply sit down on the couch with

their spouse, put their feet up and watch a good movie on TV Friday night while the kids are
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asleep. The kind that dress up for a party and put make up on to hide the pimple covered face

and bring in a sparkly handbag the medication that needs to be taken before the party is over.

Simply put, just humans. No more, no less; just who we really are: mothers, fathers, daughters,

sons, sisters, brothers, students, teachers, workers, passer-bys, old, young, rich, poor, ugly,

beautiful, mean, nice, and all in between.

In this case, both poems have imperfect, real people as their object of love: a mistress

who “when she walks, treads on the ground” and a laborer, a father “with “cracked hands that

ached from labor in the weekday,” “who had driven out the cold and polished my [the

speaker’s] good shoes as well.” No princesses or queens; no gods or kings, just ordinary people.

Unlike most poems, “Sonnet 130” and “Those Winter Sundays” describe their loved

ones merely as they are, plain and simple. Shakespeare lists his mistress’ common – and

somewhat unpleasant – features such as her dull eyes that “are nothing like the sun”, her pale

lips that when compared to coral, “Coral is far more red”, her dark breasts that “are dun”, her

unkempt hair that is like “black wires”, and her reeking breath that when compared to some

perfumes, “in some perfumes is there more delight.” Hayden’s description of his father also

does not try to cover the imperfection he sees as he points out his father’s “cracked hands”.

The speakers in both poems talk about love, real love. And what do I mean by “real

love”? Is it what I read in fairytales? Is the “they lived happily ever after” ending really what

depicts true, real love? For kids, that may be a nice way to have the stories end, but in life that

is not what happens. Love is every day, day after day; it is patches of happy days, difficult

moments, loyalty, sympathy, care, romance, friendship, helping hand, warm shoulders,

comforting hugs, beautiful days, shared moments, shared loads, sunsets, sunrises,
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disagreements, agreements, respect, sincerity, patience, good wine, good music, good reading,

great kisses, warm hands, surprises, celebrations, dreams, lessons learned, concerns, fears,

planning, encouragement, empathy, protection, routine, safety, passionate moments,

completeness, union, team playing, laughter, tears that makes a nice and comfy quilt we long

to be wrapped in whenever we can. Love is being who we are and being loved for that. Love is

enjoying life together and being loved for what we do. Real love is unconditional, it makes us

unselfish; makes us givers more than takers. This is the kind I am talking about – and so are

Shakespeare and Hayden.

This is very clear in Hayden’s poem. For Hayden, the love he talks about is the fatherly,

unconditional love. A love shown through care, but never appreciated as “no one ever thanked

him [the father]” for, despite his aching hands, warming up the house during those winter days.

A love taken for granted by the son who speaks “indifferently to him, who had driven out the

cold and polished my [the son’s] good shoes as well.” But his father never stops caring for the

family despite not being recognized. He loved them and cared for them. Something the son

comes to understand later, when he reaches an older age, probably after being a father

himself. At that point in his life, he looks back in reflection and says “What did I know, what did

I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?” The sacrifices parents make to provide for their

children he now recognizes.

Similarly, real love also sets the tone in “Sonnet 130” when Shakespeare plainly

concludes, “I think my love as rare as any she belied with false compare”, which could be

paraphrased as “I think my love is as rare as any woman misrepresented when compared

against extremely perfect characteristics.” He refers to the rare love towards an ordinary
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woman; a love as rare as the exaggeration and super qualities exalted in other poems of the

time; super qualities that describe the ideal lover and the platonic, perfect love towards those

who don’t really exist but on paper. The unusual beauty, simplicity and humanity of his

mistress, his lover, do not make him love her any less.

So, despite the gap of hundreds of years between the poems, both speakers seem to

have learned more about the topic – love is beyond perfection, beyond what others think and

set as standard for the ideal lover looks and behavior; love exists no matter what the person

looks like, what the person does or is. It may be hard for us to recognize it or find it or even

share, but love is for everyone, “love is in the air”, as well said in a song by John Paul Young.
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Works Cited

Shakespeare, William. “Sonnet 130.” Literature. A portable anthology. 2nd ed. Eds. Janet E.

Gardner, et al. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2009. 467. Print.

Hayden, Robert. “Those Winter Sundays.” Literature. A portable anthology. 2nd ed. Eds. Janet

E. Gardner, et al. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 2009. 587. Print.