Apples and Ribbons

My mistress’ 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.

This sonnet can hardly be considered a traditional love poem; in fact, the language used seems it would be more appropriate if found in a bitter message of hate.  Though times have changed considerably since this poem was penned, I cannot think of a single woman in the entire course of history who would have deemed the phrase, “black wires grow from her head” as one with any measurable romantic value.  Why then did Shakespeare choose such scathing terminology to describe his adored mistress?

Perhaps he was seeking (as literary geniuses often do) a departure from the traditional clichés of love poetry.  If this was indeed his aim, I don’t believe a single reader of this sonnet could disagree that he hit his mark spot on.  His sharp, though presumably realistic, comments on his mistress’ lips, breasts, and even breath certainly serve as a great leap from the expected, complimentary style of writing.  Suppose his work had come off as a sappy, dime-a-dozen, romantic bit.  Firstly, people such as myself would probably be far less keen to spend their time prodding and poking at it, and, more importantly, it just wouldn’t have been Shakespeare.

As a woman myself, I can clearly see the appeal related to a comparison with an angel or another creature told to possess radiating, unearthly beauty.  Sadly enough, that connection has been made.  And made.  And made.  It constantly resurfaces in poetry, novels, song lyrics, and movie scripts.  Though I would probably find such a comparison flattering if ever personally addressed with it, I can heartily say I’ve had enough of its broadcastings to faceless lovers across the world.  Seriously, people.  I know thy words are blossoming from thy frustrated, hopelessly romantic souls, but give it a rest already.  It’s getting repetitious.

How, you may ask, does my above-mentioned plea relate in any way to this Shakespearean sonnet, which was clearly structured outside the annoying mold of which I speak?  They come together because it is my belief that sonnet 130 presents not only a daring departure from tradition but a formula for a preferable and more meaningful message of love.

Who really cares if a man can sweep you off your feet and call you Aphrodite?  You are left with the realistic conclusion that you are not, in fact, a child of Zeus, and then there’s the unpleasant realization that your lover lacks any authority to make such a claim. (Better luck next time, Slick.)  In his sonnet, Shakespeare is quite clear: “I grant I never saw a goddess go/ My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground.”  Now, I could go into a great deal of depth about why an honest love will always triumph as the truest and purest, but in my mind, it doesn’t make any sense to use a whole mess of words to convey the exact point Shakespeare has already related perfectly in his clinching couplet: “And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare/ As any she belied with false compare.”