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    Shakespeare's Sonnets
    Shakespeare's Sonnets
    Shakespeare's Sonnets
    Ebook188 pages1 hour

    Shakespeare's Sonnets

    By Philip Terry

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    About this ebook

    Inspired by the flotsam of contemporary culture, journalism, and spam emails, this collection of poetry transforms Shakespeare's sonnet sequence into a celebration of the possibilities of language unleashed. Shakespeare's themes of fading beauty, posterity, immortality, and death find their modern-day responses in celebrity gossip, consumer products, vampirism, and the credit crunch. Dynamic and anarchic, this exploration sheds light on Shakespeare and the contemporary world in a disturbing yet entertaining manner.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherIndependent Publishers Group
    Release dateJan 1, 2011
    ISBN9781847778536
    Shakespeare's Sonnets
    Author

    Philip Terry

    Philip Terry was born in Belfast and has taught at the universities of Caen, Plymouth and Essex, where he is currently Director of the Centre for Creative Writing. His books include the anthology of short stories, Ovid Metamorphosed (2000), the poetry collections Oulipoems (2006), Oulipoems 2 (2009) and Shakespeare’s Sonnets (2011), and the novel tapestry (2013), which was shortlisted for the Goldsmiths Prize. He is the translator of Raymond Queneau’s Elementary Morality (2007), and Georges Perec’s I Remember (2014). Dante’s Inferno, which relocates Dante’s poem to current-day Essex, was published in 2014 and was an Independent poetry title of the year.

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      Book preview

      Shakespeare's Sonnets - Philip Terry

      1

      I

      Clone Kylie

      That thereby beauty’s rosin might never die,

      As the ripper’s memory fades

      In Portman Road.

      The contract for her eyes

      Falls through

      Making a famine where abundance lies.

      So lucky in love.

      Wembley’s nymph,

      Herald to the pink iPod,

      Withnail and I without content.

      Tender churl

      Pity this glutton

      To eat the grave and thee.

      II

      We desire increase from hedge funds

      That Ruby’s toes might never drop,

      But his hair bare his memory,

      As ripe cheese.

      But thou (contracted to Middle Earth)

      Feed’st thy flight’s male with kneecapped fowl,

      Making a famine where Adebayor lives,

      Thyself cruel to elves.

      Thou that art

      Harold to the spring,

      Buriest thy corn dolly within thine own beard,

      And mak’st waste in noggin.

      Putty                             the world.

      2

      When fishmongers attack

      And dig deep trenches,

      Who’s the ice cream for?

      I live in London,

      Do you mind if I open the window?

      The day before yesterday,

      At dawn,

      Cutlery, a cucumber, dental floss.

      We haven’t decided yet,

      How much is the 24-hour service?

      I’m a teacher, and you?

      There’s nobody there.

      Can you hear me?

      I can’t hear you, could you repeat that?  

      2

      When forty splinters besiege thy prow,

      Put a bench          by the rhododendrons,

      And knock down

      The outside lavatory.

      Ask’d where thy clackers lie,

      To say,

                  within thy deep-sunken eyes,

      Were shame.

      If thou couldst answer

      ‘This American Express card

      Shall access my account,

      What’s in your wallet?’

      This were to be Asterix when thou art Obelix.

      3

      Leak in the grass and tell the fence thou viewest,

      Why you erect no trellis

      To posterity,

      But, like Buggles, undress barren mothers.

      What fit tart wouldn’t

      Spread ’em for your plough?

      Where is Esso fondled but in tombs

      Of austerity?

      Shiny mirrors, arsehole,

      Reflect the lonely Aprils of Primula,

      Jet yoghurt through windows of gestalt seas,

      Goose fleshed winkles and bent oysters.

      You are curving like a question mark,

      Herr Shingle, and your clams lie barren on the strand.

      4

      This one’s about wanking, he said,

      Stepping on stage in a white lab coat,

      Nietzsche’s bequest means fuck all,

      And being Frank, I am no superman.

      Play the bar chords, niggard, abuse

      The bounteous gift of The Ramones,

      Press distortion,

      So great a strum, yet cannot play live.

      Stuck in traffic alone,

      You’re only kidding yourself.

      Time for the encore,

      What acceptable audition canst thou leave?

      Thy unused beauty pipetted into dry ice

      It ain’t Coca Cola, it’s rice.

      5

      Hours spent in front of the mirror

      In Kingston-upon-Thames

      Are wasted by the time you reach

      Clapham.

      Sumo wrestlers

      Too hideous

      Sit checked with frost their lust quite spent

      In KFC.

      Scent from Paris

      In a distillate of glass

      Evaporates like your wage cheque:

      Because you’re worth it.

      6

      Let summer’s glossy

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