Did Shakespeare encode his name in Psalm 46, not once, but THREE TIMES?
William Shakespeare loved wordplay and there's good reason to believe he had a hand in the King James Version of the Bible. Did he leave his personal stamp on Psalm 46 three times, and if so, why?
DID SHAKESPEARE ENCODE HIS “SIGNATURE” IN PSALM 46, NOT ONCE, BUT THREE TIMES?
by Michael R. Burch
Did the world’s near-consensus greatest writer, William Shakespeare, assist with the writing and/or editing of the King James Bible, which of all the major translations of the Bible is universally renowned as the most poetic?
The only honest answer is, “No one really knows.”
But we can certainly consider the pros and cons.
Since Shakespeare observed that “brevity is the soul of wit,” I will be brief and abbreviate the King James Version of the Bible as KJV.
Here are the pros and cons as I see them…
WHY SHAKESPEARE WAS INVOLVED WITH THE KING JAMES BIBLE
First, it makes perfect sense for the greatest writer of all time to be called in to help with what would become the world’s best-selling book. And if so, one would expect the world’s consensus greatest poet to help with the Bible’s purest poems, the Psalms.
Second, it has been argued that Shakespeare left his “signature” in Psalm 46. Why that particular psalm? According to the theory, Shakespeare was 46 years old when the KJV Bible was published, and he was retired, living in Stratford-on-Avon, and available at the time.
What exactly is the signature? Reading Psalm 46 forward the 46th word is “shake” and reading it backward the 46th word is “spear,” if one discounts the aside “Selah” which apparently indicates a pause in the reading, perhaps for an instrumental or choral, and would thus not be said aloud. As a result “Selah” might not be considered a word, but more like a stage instruction, which a playwright like Shakespeare would of course understand.
Did Shakespeare also encode his first name in Psalm 46? Reading forward, the 14th word is “Will” and reading backward the 32nd word begins the phrase “I am.” Of course 14+32 equals 46!
God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore will not we fear…
…Be still, and know that I am God: I will be exalted among the heathen, I will be exalted in the earth. The Lord of hosts is with us; the God of Jacob is our refuge. Selah.
If we include “Selah” we land on “I am” giving us “William.”
If we exclude “Selah” we land on “that I am” giving us “Will that I am.”
It has also been pointed out that the letters of William Shakespeare can be rearranged to "Here I was like a Psalm" or "Here was I like a Psalm." However, in his existing handwritten signatures Shakespeare never spelled his name as we spell it today, and his name was given to him by his parents, so this seems like a bit of a stretch to me. Unless he chose the now-conventional spelling of his name after his involvement in Psalm 46! But his name appeared as William Shake-Speare in the second quarto edition of Richard II that was printed in 1598, so probably not on this count.
In any case, a strong case can be made that William Shakespeare very cleverly encoded his identity into Psalm 46, not once but three times.
WHY SHAKESPEARE WAS NOT INVOLVED WITH THE KING JAMES BIBLE
Much of the KJV’s poetry comes directly from William Tyndale’s translations. Tyndale's English translation of the Bible was published in multiple stages between 1526 and 1534. The KJV Bible was published in 1611. William Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died in 1616. There is too big a time gap for Tyndale’s poetic translations to be attributed to Shakespeare. Also, for the parts of the Bible translated so poetically by Tyndale, not much editing was needed except for theological purposes such as the “divine right of kings” and servants obeying harsh and cruel masters, which was usually the lot of English commoners under England’s feudal kings and queens.
Counterargument: Tyndale did not translate the Psalms and perhaps the KJV editors were unable to match his poetic touch on the Bible’s purest poems. Tyndale translated the New Testament, the Pentateuch, Jonah (perhaps because Johan is considered a “type” of Christ by theologians), and a revised version of Genesis. Tyndale also left behind a manuscript of his translations of Joshua through Chronicles. But there is no evidence that he ever translated the Psalms.
CONCLUSION
What can we conclude? No one really knows, but it would make perfect sense for the KJV crew to call in the best poets to help with translations of the Bible’s purest poetry. Leading candidates would be Mary Sidney, an able translator of the Psalms, her brother the major poet Sir Philip Sidney, and of course the greatest poet and playwright of them all, Shakespeare.
As is my wont, I will toss in a few of my personal “takes” on and tributes to the Bard of Avon…
Come!
by Michael R. Burch
Will you come to visit my grave, I wonder,
in the season of lightning, the season of thunder,
when I have lain so long in the indifferent earth
that I have no girth?
When my womb has conformed to the chastity
your anemic Messiah envisioned for me,
will you finally be pleased that my sex was thus rendered
unpalatable, disengendered?
And when those strange loathsome organs that troubled you so
have been eaten by worms, will the heavens still glow
with the approval of God that I ended a maid—
thanks to a spade?
And will you come to visit my grave, I wonder,
in the season of lightning, the season of thunder?
“Come” strikes me as perhaps my most Shakespearean poem, although I wasn’t consciously imitating him when I wrote it. But it does seem a bit Macbeth-ian.
Kindred (II)
by Michael R. Burch
Rise, pale disastrous moon!
What is love, but a heightened effect
of time, light and distance?
Did you burn once,
before you became
so remote, so detached,
so coldly, inhumanly lustrous,
before you were able to assume
the very pallor of love itself?
What is the dawn now, to you or to me?
We are as one,
out of favor with the sun.
We would exhume
the white corpse of love
for a last dance,
and yet we will not.
We will let her be,
let her abide,
for she is nothing now,
to you
or to me.
“Kindred” was said to have a “very Shakespearean tone” by the poet Jane Morris.
Maker, Fakir, Curer
by Michael R. Burch
A poem should be a wild, unearthly cry
against the thought of lying in the dark,
doomed—never having seen bright sparks leap high,
without a word for flame, none for the mark
an ember might emblaze on lesioned skin.
A poet is no crafty artisan—
the maker of some crock. He dreams of flame
he never touched, but—fakir’s courtesan—
must dance obedience, once called by name.
Thin wand, divine!, this world is too the same—
all watery ooze and flesh. Let fire cure
and quickly harden here what can endure.
“Maker, Fakir, Curer” was originally published by The Lyric. It’s another poem that seems a bit Macbeth-ian to me, with a dash of Hamlet thrown in. The ancient English scops were considered to be makers: for instance, in William Dunbar’s “Lament for the Makiris.” But in some modern literary circles poets are considered to be fakers, with lies being as good as the truth where art is concerned. Hence, this poem puns on “fakirs” and dancing snakes. But according to Shakespeare the object is to leave something lasting, that will stand test of time. Hence, the idea of poems being cured in order to endure. The “thin wand” is the poet’s pen, divining the elixir—the magical fountain of youth—that makes the best poems live forever.
Stage Fright
by Michael R. Burch
To be or not to be?
In the end Hamlet
opted for naught.
Heaven Bent
by Michael R. Burch
This life is hell; it can get no worse.
Summon the coroner, the casket, the hearse!
But I’m upwardly mobile. How the hell can I know?
I can only go up; I’m already below!
“Heaven Bent” is a poem I wrote in my late teens in which I imagined Shakespeare speaking through a modern Hamlet.
Fleet Tweet: Apologies to Shakespeare
by Michael R. Burch
A tweet
by any other name
would be as fleet.
Fleet Tweet II: Further Apologies to Shakespeare
by Michael R. Burch
Remember, doggonit,
heroic verse crowns the Shakespearean sonnet!
So if you intend to write a couplet,
please do it on the doublet!
That Not-So-Mellow Fellow, Othello
by Michael R. Burch
Not sure ’bout that fellow, Othello,
was he a “hero” or merely piss yellow?
He killed his poor wife
over a handkerchief!
Thus Iago proved his heart Jello.
Ophelia
by Michael R. Burch
for Kevin N. Roberts
Ophelia, madness suits you well,
as the ocean sounds in an empty shell,
as the moon shines brightest in a starless sky,
as suns supernova before they die …
Ophélie (“Ophelia”), an Excerpt
by Arthur Rimbaud
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch
On pitiless black waves unsinking stars abide
… while pale Ophelia, a lethargic lily, drifts by …
Here, tangled in her veils, she floats on the tide …
Far-off, in the woods, we hear the strident bugle’s cry.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
This albescent phantom, has rocked here, to and fro.
For a thousand years, or more, in her gentle folly,
Ophelia has rocked here when the night breezes blow.
For a thousand years, or more, sad Ophelia,
Has passed, an albescent phantom, down this long black river.
For a thousand years, or more, in her sweet madness
Ophelia has made this river shiver.
Attention Span Gap
by Michael R. Burch
What if a poet, Shakespeare,
were still living to tweet to us here?
He couldn't write sonnets,
just couplets, doggonit,
and we wouldn't have Hamlet or Lear!
Yes, a sonnet may end in a couplet,
which we moderns can write in a doublet,
in a flash, like a tweet.
Does that make it complete?
Should a poem be reduced to a stublet?
Bring back that Grand Era when men
had attention spans long as their pens,
or rather the quills
of the monsieurs and fils
who gave us the Dress, not its hem!
Shakespeare's Sonnet 130 Refuted
by Michael R. Burch, circa age 18
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
— Shakespeare, Sonnet 130
Seas that sparkle in the sun
without its light would have no beauty;
but the light within your eyes
is theirs alone; it owes no duty.
Whose winsome flame, not half so bright,
is meant for me, and brings delight.
Coral formed beneath the sea,
though scarlet-tendriled, cannot warm me;
while your lips, not half so red,
just touching mine, at once inflame me.
Whose scorching flames mild lips arouse
fathomless oceans fail to douse.
Bright roses’ brief affairs, declared
when winter comes, will wither quickly.
Your cheeks, though paler when compared
with them?—more lasting, never prickly.
Whose tender cheeks, so enchantingly warm,
far vaster treasures, harbor no thorns.
Originally published by Romantics Quarterly
This was my first sonnet, written in my teens after I discovered Shakespeare's "Sonnet 130." At the time I didn't know the rules of the sonnet form, so mine is a bit unconventional. I think it is not bad for the first attempt of a teen poet. I remember writing this poem in my head on the way back to my dorm from a freshman English class.
I Learned Too Late
by Michael R. Burch
“Show, don’t tell!”
I learned too late that poetry has rules,
although they may be rules for greater fools.
In any case, by dodging rules and schools,
I avoided useless duels.
I learned too late that sentiment is bad—
that Blake and Keats and Plath had all been had.
In any case, by following my heart,
I learned to walk apart.
I learned too late that “telling” is a crime.
Did Shakespeare know? Is Milton doing time?
In any case, by telling, I admit:
I think such rules are shit.
The Final Revelation of a Departed God’s Divine Plan
by Michael R. Burch
Here I am, talking to myself again…
pissed off at God and bored with humanity.
These insectile mortals keep testing my sanity!
Still, I remember when…
planting odd notions, dark inklings of vanity,
in their peapod heads might elicit an inanity
worth a chuckle or two.
Philosophers, poets … how they all made me laugh!
The things they dreamed up! Sly Odysseus’s raft;
Plato’s Republic; Dante’s strange crew;
Shakespeare’s Othello, mad Hamlet, Macbeth;
Cervantes’ Quixote; fat, funny Falstaff!;
Blake’s shimmering visions. Those days, though, are through…
for, puling and tedious, their “poets” now seem
content to write, but not to dream,
and they fill the world with their pale derision
of things they completely fail to understand.
Now, since God has long fled, I am here, in command,
reading this crap. Earth is Hell. We’re all damned.
To my knowledge I have never consciously written a Shakespearean sonnet. I have never believed in the “rules” of the various forms of the sonnet, considering all such rules options and not bothering to memorize them, but it seems I have written Shakespearean sonnets by accident. In each case I was made aware of my accomplishment by other poets, otherwise I would just consider them sonnets. I believe I have also written Petrarchan and Spenserian sonnets by accident.
Chloe
by Michael R. Burch
There were skies onyx at night... moons by day...
lakes pale as her eyes... breathless winds
undressing tall elms ... she would say
that we’d loved, but I figured we'd sinned.
Soon impatiens too fiery to stay
sagged; the crocus bells drooped, golden-limned;
things of brightness, rinsed out, ran to gray...
all the light of that world softly dimmed.
Where our feet were inclined, we would stray;
there were paths where dead weeds stood untrimmed,
distant mountains that loomed in our way,
thunder booming down valleys dark-hymned.
What I found, I found lost in her face
while yielding all my virtue to her grace.
“Chloe” is an accidental Shakespearean sonnet that was originally published by Romantics Quarterly as "A Dying Fall."
Sonnet: The City Is a Garment
by Michael R. Burch
A rhinestone skein, a jeweled brocade of light,—
the city is a garment stretched so thin
her festive colors bleed into the night,
and everywhere bright seams, unraveling,
cascade their brilliant contents out like coins
on motorways and esplanades; bead cars
come tumbling down long highways; at her groin
a railtrack like a zipper flashes sparks;
her hills are haired with brush like cashmere wool
and from their cleavage winking lights enlarge
and travel, slender fingers ... softly pull
themselves into the semblance of a barge.
When night becomes too chill, she softly dons
great overcoats of warmest-colored dawn.
“The City is a Garment” is another of my accidental Shakespearean sonnets. It was originally published by The Lyric.
Afterglow
by Michael R. Burch
for Beth
The night is full of stars. Which still exist?
Before time ends, perhaps one day we’ll know.
For now I hold your fingers to my lips
and feel their pulse ... warm, palpable and slow ...
once slow to match this reckless spark in me,
this moon in ceaseless orbit I became,
compelled by wilder gravity to flee
night’s universe of suns, for one pale flame ...
for one pale flame that seemed to signify
the Zodiac of all, the meaning of
love’s wandering flight past Neptune. Now to lie
in dawning recognition is enough ...
enough each night to bask in you, to know
the face of love ... eyes closed ... its afterglow.
“Afterglow” is an unpublished Shakespearean sonnet.
Chip Off the Block
by Michael R. Burch
for Jeremy
In the fusion of poetry and drama,
Shakespeare rules! Jeremy’s a ham: a
chip off the block, like his father and mother.
Part poet? Part ham? Better run for cover!
Now he’s Benedick — most comical of lovers!
Jeremy’s father is a poet and his mother is an actress; hence the fusion, or confusion, as the case may be.
At Wilfred Owen’s Grave
by Michael R. Burch
A week before the Armistice, you died.
They did not keep your heart like Livingstone’s,
then plant your bones near Shakespeare’s. So you lie
between two privates, sacrificed like Christ
to politics, your poetry unknown
except for that brief flurry’s: thirteen months
with Gaukroger beside you in the trench,
dismembered, as you babbled, as the stench
of gangrene filled your nostrils, till you clenched
your broken heart together and the fist
began to pulse with life, so close to death.
Or was it at Craiglockhart, in the care
of “ergotherapists” that you sensed life
is only in the work, and made despair
a thing that Yeats despised, but also breath,
a mouthful’s merest air, inspired less
than wrested from you, and which we confess
we only vaguely breathe: the troubled air
that even Sassoon failed to share, because
a man in pieces is not healed by gauze,
and breath’s transparent, unless we believe
the words are true despite their lack of weight
and float to us like chlorine—scalding eyes,
and lungs, and hearts. Your words revealed the fate
of boys who retched up life here, gagged on lies.
#SHAKESPEARE #MRB-SHAKESPEARE #MRBSHAKESPEARE