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Modern Romanticism

The aspect of romance, divided between the heartening and the thoughtful.

Words of Wisdom – 5/20/2019 – “Love and Suffering, the only Equality”

May 20, 2019
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“Tears are shed equally, while love is shared beautifully. You would look to the diseased and the anguished, and need not say a word. You would speak to the eyes, and no more, to your beloved, and they’d comprehend. A tear for suffering, is there for our loss. A tear for love, is there for our gain.”

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Excerpt from a Novel – The Devorah of Reims – “An Example, Weaved from a Man in Love” – Dialogue

May 12, 2019
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Bleak and melancholy are these two men, with faces absorbed in dread.

Soon as they tread the steps to the chamber above them, a conversation begins:

“It is absurd how Devorah has shown herself that way! She revealed herself with such lasciviousness to her aspects! How is she upon the stage? I have seen her, though I did not see her.” And these were Bertrand’s words, spoken with the highest tone dedicated to frustration.

“We both saw her,” says Antoine, as he settles into a position of comfort so that his words may spill, unhindered. He continues, “There is as much passion in her, as there is seduction, albeit raving in the latter, and dreary in the former. There is nothing that I admire more, though despise no less.”

“Are such words necessary, my friend, Antoine? That you’d describe her in such a fashion has begun to irritate me,” says Bertrand, casting a dark shade of a glance upon his mellow expression.

“I have begun, myself, to notice that you find fault with everything. Though, I don’t mean to criticize harshly; as I simply mean that you never see brightness,” and the awkwardness is clearly perceived from Antoine’s words, should the reader recall Antoine’s life.

From a dark shade, comes bewilderment, and Bertrand says, “Your mention of me speaking through negativity, is strange enough for you, since you cannot even fathom the opposite. Your home, and your place, is less embroidered in good fortune than from mine. How long ago did your father pass? Your mother fell into a total despair, not very long afterwards, and I see her! Her hair clings to her neck, and her eyes are full of tears, during each moment of the day. This would be, of course, during any time I’d visit you. For I never see her anywhere else, because she doesn’t seem to leave your home, does she?”

“No,” says Antoine, with a single monosyllable word, that was enough for an answer to that disdainful question.

Poem – “One Grisly Pale Hand” – Poetry of Loss

May 11, 2019
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Death, had wept, before me,
In, the feeble form, of lust.
She, who never prospered,
Until Sorrow, showed her up.
God, kept his words, alone,
For tears to sweep, below.

She asked for sweetness, of death,
Though gave me no love, of flesh.

Holiness, that I worshipped,
I am stricken, before death.
Torn, from my severed soul,
Oh, Lea! The sin you kept.
One Grisly, Pale Hand,
Falls over, the edge.

White tides, of Lea’s light,
Were opened, at the slight.

Smooth the letters, on parchment,
Drink the fragrant, bouquet.
Pass the soliloquy, to stone,
God’s serenity, in strife.
Here, I’ll hold, Lea’s hand,
Shrouded, by loneliness.

Oh, terrible shame, release me,
God, I beg of you, hear my plea.

When priests, reveal His truth,
I’ll cry for God, once more.
Never to forget, Lea’s stroke,
Lea’s hand, pained my soul.
Above the pages, of hymns,
A cloud hovers, in song.

I tremble, by the weathered nights,
Torn at last, by Lea’s cruel blights.

Poem – “Longing, Sent over Hills” – Poetry of Loss

May 11, 2019
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The light, you let loose,
Is a tired, tempest,
Yet, the shame, keeps us near,
Below God’s lit, brazier.

The mornings, of our love,
Sing the songs, of daffodils,
As in spring’s, loving tune,
Of piercing, delight.

Oh, grief’s, holy hour,
The books, of gospels,
Those wondrous, stories,
Kept secret, by our heart.

One lit, candle,
Upon, a mahogany desk,
Is enough, for a poet,
As I, to pour out.

One light, in my want,
Is the draught, of wishes,
My light, my pierced void,
The snow, of tall mountains.

Those pained, by our love,
Will yet, bow low,
In the moment, acquired,
By the words, we share.

The Scent of Grief

May 5, 2019
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Don’t die, for the lingering sigh,
In harmony, of shadows old.

As I saw your face, of white,
With folds, of skin, among iron,
Death had painted Hell, on a frown,
For my nose, to cling, to its scent.

What would Heaven offer, if Death denied her form?
God, who stalks the bramble, of empty skies.

I am loth, in beginning to toil,
In merciless, unfurling of grief.

You had hair, which tossed beneath, your eyes,
A frail face, of listless beauty, drowned by sorrow.

Where spiders crawl, on a grave,
And snakes, devour a carcass,
In your arms, I knew of Love.
In my soul, I knew of Hatred.

I gave God, his desired Beauty.
Where salvation, would bring, an eternity.
Though the rivers, were formless,
My tears streamed, in endless currents.

Next to my beloved, who lays mangled,
I notice an arm, which clings to your heart,
That heart, which lays bare,
A heart of love, not shared.

Her Angelic Sombrous Place

May 5, 2019
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In simplicity, of revulsions,
There was joy, in her eyes,
One, who cared, for nothing more,
‘Cept, for an echoed cry.

For this, I had given her place,
Within my poor certain heart.

Of, my meager desires,
She offered, no surprise,
By the voice, that carried,
Her, through the earth.

She stole the fragrance, from blossoms,
As England breathed, its farewells.

She knew, of my own trials,
Through which, I only longed.

These were, the very contemplations,
That spoke, for empty years.

Yet, as I mingled stains,
With my soul, of winter,
To which, I now bequeath,
A word, of praise.

“I was the one, you craved,
The empty shell, you saved.
Neither one, could forge the tune,
That played below, the forest’s moon.
Nor could we, share the soil,
That will pull, our bodies down,
Let up, the one within,
My soul, which I opened.”

The great art of her grace, knows not of the poor,
Now to crawl, along the sands,
To the rocks, upon the shore.

Excerpt from a Novel – The Devorah of Reims – “The Unclean Actress”

May 3, 2019
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A poet appreciates beauty, as a mother appreciates a child. Both things, a poem and a child, were created. From such appreciation is a rising spring of love. Love holds the tolerance and intolerance of fear and surety. Doubt and certainty cling onto each other like the remnants of grapes held at the bottom of a wine bottle.

Antoine wanders down this street, down Avenue de l’Opéra; he knows where he is walking; for he is walking to a theater, named to be Théâtre Edouard VII. He must turn on the street named Boulevard des Capucines and find himself turning left onto a street named Place Édouard VII.

When he arrives, there is a singular observance that flares open his eyes, upon what his eyes have caught.

The longest train to which has ever been witnessed in existence from Antoine, flows like a white river out of the theater, and into the street. Alike to that of esteemed actresses who’ve reached stardom in this time, it extends out seemingly to his feet, and halts. Beauty has made itself a presence on this magnificent train. The wind pushes it, and the wind pulls it. The wind lifts it, and the wind presses it.

There is the adoration that Antoine expresses in his written countenance full of the writing of amazement. He tears his eyes close to the train, and then he begins to follow it. He ascends a few steps to the theater’s door. Then, he quits his movement to gaze ahead.

Before him, he notices a woman’s gentle features.

They are features that look halfway towards him and seem to be frozen on flesh that has many hues and only one crimson blush to a solitary cheek. For that is all what is witnessed by Antoine. It is a cheek and only half a face.

A broken stare, marred by a few tears, wept aloud in the sweet happiness known for a woman dressed in a smile. For her smile collides with a pain that is in her, the presence of unfulfillment. Beauty runs a wild trail down from her dress to her feet. For stardom is the enemy of humanity. Fame taints the actress and creates the mask of theater.

She becomes the harlot, turned towards the amusement for an audience’s candor. They observe; they bow; they kiss; and they drown.

This woman soon notices the fascination exhibited on the face of this Antoine, and she enjoys the nuptiality from that fascination, hurled after her. She smiles a warm smile, full now pure sweetness, and there is no more pain etched into it. Although, it appears as if that smile was only the result of an opiate being inhaled through the nostrils. An escape, away from her reality, and into the arms of a comforting deception.

All Beauty Falls without its Protection

May 2, 2019
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We had loved, without glimpses, to our present,
Allowing its gift, to surge, through our hearts,
We had called upon, love to swell,
Dancing on shores, where waters collected.

I do love thee, with all the flames, of my heart,
I love thy beauty, with all the light, that flickers.

I leave thee, to roam, among the planet’s edge,
I leave, for the music, of my soul, has lifted,
To new heights, beyond thee.

I gave thee ground, to tread,
To see this empire, as meager, as soiled,
But to pity me, is to find emptiness,
You’d find it greater, than what I’d built.

In drawing upon beauty, a blade of skin,
Marking myself, my name, into your silk,
In conquering thee, I gave plentiful graces,
To the sea, and to the sky, my domain.

You are loved, no longer.
My beauty, my pain, my shame.

Utter demises, and utter bliss,
Therefore, to walk alone, is my wish.

A Spread of Darkness Across Her Lips

May 2, 2019
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When Mary, came to nurse,
A tree, by the lake,
I saw, with feeble eyes, and feeble heart,
A darkness, across lips, to kiss.
And she struck me, with a gaze!
Made me forget, my woes.
I danced akin, to the harlot’s motion,
When beauty, nestles only on black.

What had dominated white?
It was black, that dominated white.
It was the universe, that shrouded the moon.
It was the universe, that shrouded the sun.
Bombarded my guilt, to deadness.
And I grieved, no more.

Oh, Mary. By the well, where you dwelled,
Made to suffer, made for hell.
Your absence, was the darkness, of me,
As I turned, in Christ’s direction, to plea.
A sickness, reveled in me,
Drunken on curses, that sickened thee.
Mary with pleasures, thwarted,
Mary with children, bloodied,
Mary with jewels, become rotted,
Mary with misery, remembered.

The Music of Memory

May 2, 2019
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Winter drained itself, upon my knees,
In holding the cross, to your grave.
I saw, with feeble stare,
The stars, upon your eyes.

They that saw, the infinity, in our love,
And knew, it to be a lie.

I would only fight, to see tomorrow,
And now, I cradle death, in transparent arms.
In a moment, that knows, how to weep,
I sing a song, to grieve.

Blessings told by priests, and their hymns, of loudness,
As if to awaken, the dead, from their slumber.
I drew white, around white,
A sheet, about a body,
While a rose, stood atop, your crown,
A nest, of tresses, shows the hue, of ice.

A tear falls, from my cheek, to my chin,
I left it there, for my kin to see,
And for my kin, to salvage.

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