12-10-2014, 08:39 AM
hello,
so here goes:
in closing, if you are going to re-write Shakespeare make sure you're not trying to balance a stone on a mountain:
To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in all thy Orisons
Be thou all my sins remembered.
so here goes:
(12-08-2014, 01:49 PM)Tundradriver72 Wrote: You have to
Its hard to walk the edge of a cliff - I will let the missing apostrophe in It's go, because I assume it is a typing error. I mean, for the very first word one encounters in a poem to have such a basic grammatical mistake, it must be a typing error, right?
Even more so with worn feet - this is relatively ok in terms of concept. It does however give a sense of time and age, and in general time and age will have the opposite effect.
And its difficult to balance a mountain on a stone - some punctuation would help, here. I mean, it is difficult to balance a mountain on a stone at the best of times (metaphorical or not), so why particularly with 'worn feet'. But, having said that, I do like the metaphor.
Walking blind takes faith - I actually think this is a wonderfully interesting line; but I cannot help thinking that it is too easy a pun, so I almost dismissed it as obvious word play (or even worse, cliche word play), which speaks to the language used. compare Corinthians (bible): We walk by faith, not by sight.
Especially after one failed attempt
The what if's become apparent,
like white chalk on a black board - I think these three lines can be removed.
To trip, to hit a wall, to step off the edge,
that would be deathly - deathly sounds awful. Deadly, better?
But how deep is the pit really? - again, you are lacking punctuation. But then again, is 'really' really necessary? or 'but' for that matter.
Its an unspeakable place, but is the chance worth it? - oh, it wasn't a typing error. IT'S is short for 'it is'.
You have to trust the executioner,
well hope really, that he leaves the noose untied. - this is nice, but too preachy. we don't HAVE to trust the executioner.
in closing, if you are going to re-write Shakespeare make sure you're not trying to balance a stone on a mountain:
To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing, end them? To die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in all thy Orisons
Be thou all my sins remembered.

