I decided to write six Shakespearean sonnets (iambic pentameter and all) from the perspectives of various characters from the plays we read during the semester, which includes Julius Caesar, The Merchant of Venice, Much Ado About Nothing, Macbeth, and Hamlet.
I did it because I thought it would be easy. It wasn't.
They're not very good at all. I'm only posting them because they took me forever to write and I find them a bit funny.
Of all the men that might have been our king
they chose a snake—a snake to poison Rome.
A viper, viper—Caesar’s chant will ring
throughout our streets—a battle for our home,
a funeral march to consecrate the land,
a warning tune to keep ye children safe,
a desperate cry for Rome to take a stand
against the snake, lest we become his slaves.
Sir Brutus is as close as one may be,
and to our cause will be his signature.
I’ll lure his heart with discreet flattery
and trick his eyes to love the sinister.
Sir Brutus acts with great sincerity,
so we must trick him for our victory.
My friend, my king—a Roman knight so brave
I could not see his faults. My eyes were blind
to tyranny. He must be stopped to save
dear Rome. My Caesar, death has been assigned
to thee. I see the truth behind the mask
upon your face. You cannot hide from me,
my friend. I’ve been assigned a noble task:
to slay thee, friend—to stab the heart of thee.
We’ll bathe our hands within your crimson blood,
we’ll show the land how true our honor shines,
proclaim to all that this is how it’s done:
the love of Rome shall mean you draw no lines.
For I loved him; he’s all I did live for.
But I serve Rome. Dear Rome, I love you more.
The people need a decent, guiding hand
to lead them on, protect, and serve them well.
I am the one to rule this noble land,
this city where my friends and people dwell.
Beware the Ides of March, a warning rings,
as though a month could bring my mortal fate.
My wife is, too, concerned with what March brings,
but I trudge on to lead this noble state.
My friends have come, but with a downcast eye.
They gather ‘round, as if an angry mob.
I do not see the stinging dagger fly,
but feel the bite, the poison; then, I sob
for Brutus sees; he slowly comes to view,
then stabs my heart. Oh Brutus—even you?
I’m Portia, heir to land and majesty,
but selfish men are all that seek my hand.
My tongue is sharp; I’m good for tragedy,
to speak, though, I must dress up like a man.
I’m Beatrice, and love can leave me be.
I’ve never found it worth to say, “I do,”
for men are wicked, worthless, and to free
myself, I’ve learned to turn and say, “Adieu.”
I think my name was once Ophelia,
where Denmark kings were shuffled to the throne,
but I’ve lost all memorabilia,
except these flowers and my river stones.
we women sing without our voices heard;
we live in plays where men are more preferred.
Macbeth and Lady Macbeth:
the blood, the blood—we’ll spill the crimson blood
of Duncan, King, and take his throne and crown.
We’ll build our kingdom on that ruby flood;
we’ll throw all traitors in the red to drown.
My wife will guide me to my victory;
her moves are bolder than myself can be.
But I will also inflict injury,
for I can be as ruthless as is she.
My husband knows not how to rise above,
so I will teach him not to fear the knife.
I will not be his servant tied by love;
I’ll be his queen instead of simply wife.
Through blood, by blood, we’ll climb to king and queen,
we’ll rule the land like no one else has seen.
I cannot—will not—shall I live to be
a son and nephew to a murderer?
he killed my father, then, to torment me,
stole my mother like a burglar.
My father’s ghost has beckoned at my sword
to rise against this place where murder dwells.
I am to seek revenge upon my lord,
and save my father’s ghost from heat and hell.
I shall disguise my wit with insane acts
and kill him when the rightful moment strikes.
The rest of Denmark does not know the facts;
they will not favor my revengeful strike.
But I am bound by word and dignity,
though after this, I’ll live in infamy.