"Nets"

Squeaking a few in under the wire. This is the first (and only) poetry book I'll probably ever include in this blog. I've been packing a lot lately, and this little volume seemed to miss the box.

"Nets"
Jen Bervin
Ugly Duckling Presse, 2006 (third printing)
ISBN# 0972768432

In a fit of experimentation, Jen Bervin transforms Shakespeare's immortal sonnets into small phrases by letting a few words slip "through the net".

Of all the crazy experimental poetry I had to read for my various poetry classes in undergrad, this is one of the few ones I enjoyed. Jen Bervin takes full Shakespeare sonnets and fades the text except for a few choice words. The effect is one of two sentences (that actually make sense...what a novelty!) that seem to capture the essence of Shakespeare. Because this book isn't so mainstream as our works discussed here, I'm including two examples. (Copyright moment: I don't own them. These works belong to Jen Bervin.)


63
Against my love shall be, as I am now,
With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'er-worn;
When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
With lines and wrinkles; when his youthful morn
Hath travelled on to age's steepy night,
And all those beauties whereof now he's king
Are vanishing or vanished out of sight,
Stealing away the treasure of his spring;
For such a time do I now fortify
Against confounding age's cruel knife,
That he shall never cut from memory
My sweet love's beauty, though my lover's life:
His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,
And they shall live, and he in them still green.

136
If thy soul check thee that I come so near,
Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy 'Will,'
And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;
Thus far for love my love-suit, sweet, fulfil.
'Will' will fulfil the treasure of thy love,
Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one.
In things of great receipt with ease we prove
Among a number one is reckoned none.
Then in the number let me pass untold,
Though in thy store's account I one must be;
For nothing hold me, so it please thee hold
That nothing me, a something sweet to thee:
Make but my name thy love, and love that still,
And then thou lovest me, for my name is 'Will.'