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,
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
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