My beloved

I beheld the moon and asked earnest
If he had seen anyone as graceful as my beloved;
The moon thought and said, " Blest
Is she, for sure no star or comet shines as much,
No, the sun fades when she smiles,
The clouds move away and expose a blemish-less skin,
The colour of dusk twinkles on her cheeks,
O, my own tender moonlight shies away jealous,
She lives where the fairest of fair is led!"
And I grew angry, for sure he had lied,
For sure she’s beyond compare-
Where comes the sun or the star?
O, she is fairer far, she is fairer far...
2\8\2000, Calcutta-63

COMMENTS :

Now, there is this very pretty and very innocent girl in my college, one year my junior, who sends a ‘summon to all my foolish blood’. Dedicated to that lovely girl who is a wonder and who, unfortunately, shall never read this poem that has been composed in her admiration.

Any unromantic pursuer of the poem would think that I have gone loony in describing this girl. Just a look at the superlatives and you can be sure I am star-struck. That I am, but the superlatives are an expression of admiration, not a rendering of truth, although there might be some semblance of truth. The poem is in the tradition of Petrarchan (another star-struck who started a convention of such poems which brought the beloved to the divine pedestal) love-poetry. It was Shakespeare who broke the monotony, trying to depict the beloved in more romantic but realistic terms but in this endeavour he became quite absurd. Here is the poem:

CXXX (This is actually the number of the sonnet in the series of sonnets that Shakespeare wrote. What happened is that Shakespeare wrote so many sonnets and so many other things besides, that he was short of imagination when it came to giving titles to his sonnets- and mind you, he made the score of a century and a half)

My mistress’s eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red:
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun,
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go, -
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground;
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.