Sonnet 94 is my favorite poem of all time. I wish I had known of it or been capable of understanding it during my BLS days so that I could have recited it for Declamation. If pressed now, I could recite it, because I have it so, so memorized. I want to sing it someday. I really, really fucking love Sonnet 94.
My first take on it was written while waiting for my best friend to finish a poker game at a casino. I myself always do well in the tourneys I play in, nearly always finishing in the Top 20%, and I never bluff and I fold quite a lot. You could say that I know when to hold them and know when to fold them.
My second take on it was written about two weeks ago, in the kitchen area of unit South 3, Arbour Hospital, Jamaica Plan. (SOUTH 3, represent!)
The original:
http://www.shakespeare-online.com/sonnets/94.html
Sonnet 94
They that have power to hurt and will do none,
That do not do the thing they most do show,
Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,
Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;
They rightly do inherit heaven's graces
And husband nature's riches from expense;
They are the lords and owners of their faces,
Others but stewards of their excellence.
The summer's flower is to the summer sweet,
Though to itself it only live and die,
But if that flower with base infection meet,
The basest weed out-braves his dignity;
For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;
Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.
Mine:
Sonnet AA
They that have monster hands but will not pay,
That do not play as tight as they might rate,
Who, stressing others, give nothing away,
Unphased, and impossible to bait;
They rightly use their big hands, stemming races
And keep pots from becoming big too fast;
They alone control their poker faces,
Others just holding their chips 'til they're passed.
The pocket rocket's loved by all with chips,
Though aces are just always accidents,
But if a flush draw's flopped or, worse yet, trips,
Off-suited seven-two could make more sense;
For biggest pairs are spoiled by rote play;
Aces busted suck worse than thrown away.
Sonnet 94.5
They that have your freedom by the short hair,
That are not quite the fascist clowns they show;
Who, controlling you, are themselves trapped there,
Unhappy, poor, and to awareness slow;
They are the ones who should be patient
And receive daily meds they ought not fence.
They're the frauds and posers of displacement,
Others but victims of their negligence.
The sanest bloke is to the insane sick,
Though to himself he only laugh and cry;
But if he reacts like a lazy prick,
The biggest hypocrites outpsych his Psi.
Sanest things turn looniest by their acts;
Heroes who flip out are way worse than hacks.
p.s. I like pretending that Jim O'Rourke named this song after Shakespeare's 94. It's a song that was very important to me in September of 2010. I daydreamt to its sound so, so much.
See ya next year, peeps!
