Earlier Times

A friend posted some lines of Edgar Allan Poe on Twitter today, which triggered a little exploration. This in conjunction with the season - Hallowe'en and the descent into a darker Autumn - provoked in me a sense of romantic melancholy. Time for an exercise in pastiche.

The Victorian Gothic sensibility had an epic grandeur about it. There is a formality to the poetry of course - literally, in its structure, rhythms and rhymes - but also in the dance between passion and restraint. The form holds the passion captive, such that the poet must become even more expansive in her expression. The beating heart of the poet is held chained within the iron bars of the form, leading to a sweet desperation of tone.

Had we been born in earlier times,

When stars were mysteries, and poets' rhymes

A commonplace, nay, expected too,

I would have scribed this verse for you.

I would have sharpened nib and dipped,

That from my pen the ink which dripped

Might flow to you, express its fire

To tell you of my heart's desire

On parchment I'd reveal my soul

And pray my words would fire the coal

Of love, within your darling breast

To match the burning in my melancholy chest

And to your beating heart I'd press

My hand, that my fingers might caress

And coax the glimmering flame alive.

And hope, ignited in my soul, would live.

May our destiny be one.

May our sorrows all be gone.

May our hearts beat sound and true.

May our love be ever young.

1st November, 2023

Laundering Money - old school

Back in the days of paper money and a decent postal service, Ruth's mum would slip a crisp £5 note in with a birthday card.

It had to be crisp, preferably fresh from the post office counter. You simply could not put a crumpled up note in as a birthday present! That would never do.

On those occasions when a fresh, crisp one wasn't available, she would take an old one from her purse, run it under the tap, then hold it flat in the palm of her hand and gently rub the soap over it a few times, working it into the paper, watching the suds turn muddy grey between her fingers, before a final rinse. Then she'd press it flat against the side of the bath to dry overnight, retrieving the note in the morning freshly washed and ironed.

It may not have had quite the allure of a note in mint condition, but it was at least tidy and clean with a patina of care and attention.

And just a hint of Imperial Leather.