December stands still, yet moves within itself, a solemn breath before the year exhales. The air whispers secrets of frost and fire, a quiet warmth nestled in the heart of cold.
Beneath bare trees, life lingers, fragile as the glass ornaments we cradle, shining and trembling, aware of their fragility.
It is the month of hands— hands to hold close, hands to wave goodbye. Snow falls like memory, each flake a piece of what was, melting as it lands.
The sky wears both dawn and dusk together, an endless twilight where time folds in on itself. The past feels closer, the future a breath you cannot catch.
Love in December is fierce, burning against the chill, because it knows it must. Because it knows it will soon have to let go.
And so, we wrap the year in ribbons, in the ache of holding on, in the grace of release. December, you are the stillness of endings, the weight of beginnings, a lesson in everything we can never quite keep.
The romanticism of orange flowers can be characterized by the confluence of a multiplicity of evocative features. This chromatic and olfactory combination is imbued with a subtlety and richness that is unparalleled in its ability to evoke a sense of longing and desire.
The hue of orange is inherently linked to warmth, vitality, and dynamism. It is a hue that is undeniably uplifting, evocative of the sun and the fertile earth. The allure of orange flowers is further enhanced by their delicate, intricate structures. The petals are intricately arranged in a symmetrical and harmonious fashion, creating an organic geometry that is both mesmerizing and seductive. When viewed from a distance, the flowers appear as a vibrant orange blur, an ethereal presence that seems to glow with an inner radiance.
However, if one looks at this picture closely then the beauty of the orange flowers might be overlooked by the human race for their eyes shall be focussed on the barren lands behind. The juxtaposition of the orange flowers amidst the dry, barren lands creates a striking visual dichotomy. The vibrant hue of the blossoms seems almost surreal against the dull and lifeless landscape. It is as if nature itself is making a bold statement, asserting its resilience and determination to survive. The flowers’ delicate petals sway in the unrelenting heat, a reminder of the fragility of life, yet also of its tenacity. It is a scene of contrasts, of beauty amidst decay, of hope amidst despair. The orange flowers serve as a beacon of light in the darkness, a small but powerful symbol of nature’s ability to endure and flourish against all odds.
In the presence of the orange flowers amidst the barren land, human tendencies are often marked by a desire to assign purpose to their existence. Questions arise, such as “what is the point of these flowers in such a desolate landscape?” This inclination towards rationalization can obscure the inherent beauty of the scene and reduce it to mere functionality. It is as if we seek to impose our own sense of order onto the natural world, to explain away the inexplicable. Yet the orange flowers defy such narrow-minded thinking, existing simply because they can, a testament to the whims of nature and the beauty that arises from its unfettered expression. In a world increasingly defined by human intervention and control, the orange flowers serve as a reminder of the intrinsic value of the natural world and the importance of embracing the beauty that arises from its inherent chaos.
The orange flowers’ mere presence in a barren landscape subverts the human impulse to impose order and rationality, instead offering a glimpse into the unpredictable, yet exquisite, manifestations of the natural world. It is a display of nature’s raw, unbridled power, a force that has no need for human rationalization or purpose. Rather, it is an entity that is self-sufficient, infinitely complex, and wholly deserving of appreciation in its own right.
“Amidst the barren lands, some orange in flowers blooms,
personifying a flicker of hope in the desolate gloom.
The vibrant hue, acting as a beacon of life
in the midst of an arid terrain, existing as a
testament to nature’s resilience, despite the parched pain.
Each petal, a brushstroke of colour on a canvas of dust and sand,
a masterpiece of contrast, the perfect blend of desolation and grand.
For even in the bleakest of landscapes, life finds a way,
If, as they say, poetry is a sign of something among people, then let this be pre-arranged now, between us, while we are still peoples: that at the end of time, which is also the end of poetry (and wheat and evil and insects and love), when the entire human race gathers in the flesh, reconstituted down to the infant’s tiniest fold and littlest nail, I will be standing at the edge of that fathomless crowd with an orange for you, reconstituted down to its innermost seed protected by white thread, in case you are thirsty, which does not at this time seem like such a wild guess, and though there will be no poetry between us then, at the end of time, the geese all gone with the seas, I hope you will take it, and remember on earth I did not know how to touch it, it was all so raw, and if by chance there is no edge to the crowd or anything else so that I am of it, I will take the orange and toss it as high as I can.
Analysis
“If, as they say, poetry is a sign of something among people, then let this be prearranged now, between us, while we are still peoples:”
The speaker begins by questioning the significance of poetry and its ability to connect people. The phrase “let this be pre-arranged now” suggests a desire to make a meaningful connection with the reader, even if it is at the end of time.
“that at the end of time, which is also the end of poetry (and wheat and evil and insects and love), when the entire human race gathers in the flesh, reconstituted down to the infant’s tiniest fold and littlest nail,”
The speaker continues to imagine a future time when everything will come to an end, including poetry, love, and life as we know it. The phrase “reconstituted down to the infant’s tiniest fold and littlest nail” suggests that even in this future time, the speaker and the reader will be reconnected at the most fundamental level of human existence.
“I will be standing at the edge of that fathomless crowd with an orange for you, reconstituted down to its innermost seed protected by white thread,”
Here, the speaker offers the reader an orange, which represents a gesture of love and connection. The phrase “reconstituted down to its innermost seed protected by white thread” reinforces the idea that even in the future, the speaker and the reader will be connected at the most fundamental level of existence.
“in case you are thirsty, which does not at this time seem like such a wild guess,”
The speaker suggests that the reader may be thirsty at the end of time, and that the orange will be a refreshing drink. This line also highlights the uncertainty and unpredictability of the future.
“and though there will be no poetry between us then, at the end of time,”
The speaker acknowledges that poetry will no longer exist in the future, but the orange will be a meaningful gesture of love and connection regardless.
“the geese all gone with the seas,”
This line suggests a future world in which natural beauty and wonder will no longer exist.
“I hope you will take it, and remember on earth I did not know how to touch it, it was all so raw,”
The speaker hopes that the reader will accept the orange as a symbol of love and connection, even though the speaker did not fully understand its significance during their lifetime.
“and if by chance there is no edge to the crowd or anything else so that I am of it,”
The final lines of the poem suggest a sense of uncertainty about the future and the possibility that the speaker may not be present at the meeting with the reader.
“I will take the orange and toss it as high as I can.”
Despite this uncertainty, the speaker vows to make the gesture of offering the orange, even if it is only to the universe itself. This final line is a powerful image of hope and connection that transcends time and space.
“peeling oranges this, sharing tangerines that, what about cutting and de-seeding pomegranates for the ones you love? the ruby stains on your fingers fleeting proofs of your undying devotion”
William Shakespeare’s works are instrumental for the emergence of some of the most recognisable writings in the hallowed halls of English literature. In addition, William Shakespeare is credited with the development of a number of the most well-known literary techniques. He is responsible for several well-received works of human drama, comedy, and love sonnets, and the legacy of his work lives on to this day in the form of its effect on authors. The bulk of Shakespeare’s well-known plays and tales were written during the latter half of the 16th century. He spent many years savouring writing comedies and historical plays before he discovered his real love: creating tragic and gloomy dramas such as Hamlet and Macbeth.
Shakespeare’s initial plays are written in the conventional manner that was popular at the time. The use of extended metaphors, parables, and narcissisms, some of which were rather grandiose, was one of his primary storytelling approaches.[1] His writing often came out as verbose and pompous. Shakespeare’s first original comedy, “The Two Gentlemen of Verona”, which was written in 1590, demonstrates a literary style that is underdeveloped and erratic.
This article focusses on analysing and detailing in depth the writing style opted by Sir William Shakespeare in a vast majority of his work. This article aims to study the details in the lyrics produced by Sir William and the objective behind the same, by analysing the Iambic Pentameter and the age old poetic skill of Prosody.
The Iambic Pentameter
In a line of poetry, an ‘iamb’ is a foot or beat consisting of an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable, or in another words, a short syllable followed by a longer one. The term ‘Penta’ means five, and hence pentameter simply means five meters. The Iambic Pentameter is a line of writing that consists of ten syllables in a specific patten of an unstressed syllable, followed by a stressed syllable.
Playwrights may mimic natural speech patterns in poetry by using iambic pentameter. The rhythm makes the text and the discussion more fluid and genuine. Iambic pentameter, in its simplest definition, is a metrical speaking rhythm indigenous to the English language. Shakespeare probably used iambic pentameter to mimic the pace of daily conversation in his plays, so that his audience would feel as if they were seeing themselves perform.[2]
The versatility of English iambic pentameter to absorb audible fluctuations in stress without disrupting the pattern’s abstract thread is one of its most often highlighted virtues. To imitate the great artists and writers Wimsatt and Beardsley: “It is practically impossible to write an English line that will not in some way buck against the meter. Insofar as it does approximate the condition of complete submission, it is most likely a tame line a weak line”.[3] It was pointed out that there would inevitably be, and that it was desired to have, some friction between the stress patterns of each line and the abstract pattern of meter.
The Artistic Skill of Prosody
One of the major traits of Sir William Shakespeare was his way of using words to manipulate the emotions of his audience, and regulate their attention.[4] This age-old poetic skill in ancient literature is termed as “Prosody”. Prosody is the study of the acoustic and rhythmic repercussions of words, most often in poetry yet often in prose. The word’s origin in ancient Greece suggests that it may have referred to either a song set to music or the way in which a syllable was stressed.[5]
A basic terminology under Prosody is the “iamb”, which means an unstressed syllable followed by a stressed syllable. This pair of syllables can be in a single word or spread across two. Let us take an example of the above from the piece by Lord Byron, titled “She Walks in Beauty”.
“She walks in beauty like the night
Of Cloudless clines and starry skies;”
Now, in Shakespeare’s use of Iambic Pentameter, you can see how rhythmic complexity is building, as each iamb is one part of a larger structure. For example: Refer to this extract from Shakespeare’s “Much Ado About Nothing” –
“What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Stand I condemned for pride and scorn so much?
Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu!
No glory lives behind the back of such.”
It’s the paradigm that Shakespeare (and the vast majority of English poets since Chaucer) preserved. Because it’s easy to read, resonates in your consciousness, and facilitates you to get into a rhythm.
Keeping in mind the above explained “iambic rhythm”, read the following excerpt from King Lear –
“And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life!
Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,
and thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,
never, never, never, never, never”
Now here in the above-mentioned excerpt, if you keep emphasis on the “never, never” then this is something called a “trochee”. The trochee is the opposite of the iamb; it’s a stressed syllable followed by unstressed (DA-dum). You can’t read it like an iamb; it doesn’t work.
For the same, refer to this excerpt from Macbeth, wherein Shakespeare uses ‘trochaic tetrameter’ as the main poetic meter, which basically means a line of four trochaic feet. In classical meter, a trochee is a foot with an elongated first syllable and a shorter second syllable; in contemporary English poetry, a trochee is a foot with a stressed first syllable and an unstressed second syllable. In classical meter, a line in tetrameter has four Metra, with each Metron consisting of two trochees for a total of eight trochees. A line containing four trochees in the contemporary meter.[6]
“Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.”
That concludes our discussion of the trochee and the iamb. You can see how the two flows are distinct from one another. Both of these things are referred to as “metrical feet”, which are literally units of rhythm. Poets rely on linguistic foundations akin to this as the primary source of sustenance and inspiration for their work. But those two things aren’t necessarily incompatible with one another. Shakespeare often blended the iamb and trochee (or, indeed, other metrical feet) to manage the tempo at which we speak or read his works.
Now keep all the above discussion in mind, and read the following excerpt which is the Macbeth’s final soliloquy –
Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
There’s a lot happening here, but the alternating iamb and trochee rhythms will stand out to you the most. You’ll find yourself in a groove, moving swiftly down a string of iambs or trochees, only to come to a standstill as the meter changes. Like being propelled forward by a force you can’t see while you read. This is something Shakespeare did throughout his strenuous episodes. The speed may be slowed and kept under control by combining metrical feet, which causes the speaker to accentuate certain words.[7]
“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow”, is an awkward, slow beginning. It drags on, dovetailing with Macbeth’s meaning.
We hit a good run here:
“And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death”.
But then:
“Out, out, brief candle!”
We are wrenched away from the flow – almost like a train of thought – interrupted by this sudden, formless shout. Macbeth’s despair comes alive.
We pick up pace again with:
“That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more”.
But then the rhythmic flow starts to go awry. It moves from poetic meter to mere speech, from order to chaos, and ends with:
“Signifying nothing”. The words land.
Conclusion
This is prosody, the rhythmic use of language. Shakespeare had complete command of this unseen influence, which directs the feelings and focus of both the presenter and the receiver.
Shakespeare’s metrical changes, including crescendoing counterpoint, intertwining lines, and everything else, seldom, if ever, transmit meaningful semantic detail to audiences. However, they do provide for a stimulating mental setting, one in which the mind is continually prompted to react to novel input. Substantially unharnessed metrical patterns make up this setting; they don’t provide encoded signals, but they do constitute an autonomous order with their own unique cognitive demands and rewards.
To some extent, Shakespeare is responsible for shaping contemporary Western language and etiquette, which may explain why Huxley made him the antagonist of Brave New World. His greatness lies in the fact that he skilfully incorporated the themes, motifs, allegories, and metaphors of his many sources, notably his Greek and Latin heroes like Seneca and Ovid, into his poetry and reworked them to create something entirely new.
[1] Mark Womack, Shakespearean Prosody Unbound, 45 TEXAS STUDIES IN LITERATURE AND LANGUAGE 1, 15.
What is Art? Well, there are two main definitions. Number 1 is any human creative endeavour, whether literature or music or anything else. Number 2 is more specific – the “visual arts”. But the trouble with that second definition of Art, the type we imagine in galleries and museums, is that it never really existed. Galleries and museums are beautiful places for sure, but they can easily make us forget that art almost always had a specific context.
They might make it seem like art doesn’t have a setting or an objective, both of which are important to understand. That is to say, it wasn’t made with the intention of being shown in a museum where it would be seen, examined, and evaluated as “Art” in isolation. The Benin Bronzes, for example, which can be seen in collections all over the globe, provide a clear illustration of this phenomenon. These were made in the Kingdom of Benin (present-day Nigeria) between the 13th and 18th centuries to serve as palace decorations and as a cultural chronicle of the kingdom’s history.
This is also true of the Parthenon Friezes, created in about 440 BC by the sculptor Phidias to decorate the brand-new Parthenon in Athens, a temple at the heart of the city. It wasn’t just “art”; it had a place and a function, a symbolic and religious meaning.
There are less egregious examples. Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam, from about 1511, is one of the world’s most famous images. But it was painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, a place of religious worship. Seen on its own in cropped images, such context is lost.
Leonardo’s Last Supper, immortalised in popular culture, is another case in point. This is the image we are accustomed to seeing:
But, in the 1490s, Leonardo painted it on the walls of a refectory in Milan. This was a dining room where the monks of the convent would come together to eat, with Jesus and the apostles eating right alongside them.
It even goes for portraits. Like Jan van Eyck’s masterful Arnolfini Portrait, created in 1434 to mark the marriage between an Italian merchant called Giovanni Arnolifini and his wife. Which would then have a place in the couple’s home to remember the occasion of their wedding.
Michelangelo’s David was originally commissioned to be placed on the roof of Florence Cathedral. But it was too heavy to haul up, so they placed it outside the Palazzio Vecchio in 1504, Florence’s town hall, with that famous gaze directed towards Rome, Florence’s rival.
And it was only in 1873 that David was moved to his current location in the Galleria dell’ Accademia. Still a symbol of Florentine identity, of course, but somewhat shorn of the original political-artistic statement he once made.
And then, on a smaller scale, are the great Gothic works of art like the Wilton Diptych, painted in the 1390s for the personal use of King Richard II of England in prayer and worship. This art wasn’t for art’s sake; it had a function.
While the wonderful Ajanta Murals, painted between about 200 BC and 600 AD in the astonishing rock-cut temples and chambers in Maharashtra, India, record the life of the Buddha, his followers, his teachings. They weren’t just made to be pretty; they told an important story.
In the the 17th and 18th centuries the “vedutisti”, led by Canaletto, produced magnificent, highly-detailed cityscapes. But these were a sort of pre-photographic souvenir for tourists (usually rich Englishmen in those days) to take home as a memory of the places they’d visited.
The point here isn’t that art can’t be enjoyed or loved or appreciated without knowledge of its original purpose. Indeed, the mark of all truly great art is to exceed its context and reach a sort of universal truth or beauty which speaks to us directly. But it’s important to remember the link between art and its socio-cultural context; that humanity’s creative endeavours have always had a purpose. Seen in galleries or simply as images we are in danger of separating “art” from the rest of human civilisation.
What might we imagine was the purpose of the oldest art we know? We can never be sure what prehistoric cave paintings like those in Lascaux, France, from 19,000 years ago, were intended for. But we can guess!
Because, even though it’s been millennia, we’re still doing the same thing. Why do individuals go through the trouble of decorating their homes? It’s possible that this was the same motivation that drove our ancestors to decorate the cave walls all those years ago. Art not only honors and symbolizes significant events, but it also serves to remind us that we are beings of meaning in addition to biological make-up. Because of this, even the most well-known works of art have a distinct function and setting, whether it be Leonardo da Vinci’s The Last Supper displayed beside the monks at lunchtime or the colorful magnets on your refrigerator. It is not something that exists separate from society; rather, it is an integral element of society. Take for example, the question of whether or not the Statue of Liberty may be considered a work of art. Obviously, this is the case, but there is also “more” to it. Imagine it displayed in a gallery or a museum behind a glass case, similar to how the Benin Bronzes or the Parthenon Friezes are shown.
Doesn’t seem quite right, does it?
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Aaditya Bajpai 