A Saturday Celebration: Lord Byron

A Saturday Celebration:
Lord Byron, 1788 - 1824

Today at One Stop Poetry we celebrate the work of one of Britain's most famous poets, George Gordon Byron. He is  6th Baron Byron, born, 22nd January 1788, better known as Lord Byron.

Byron’s short life of 36 years was full of adventure and literary acclaim. From being revered as a national hero in Greece, for taking arms and fighting the Ottoman Empire in the Greek War of Independence, to the famous tale of being cooped up for three days during a “wet, ungenial summer” at the Villa Diodati, which  led to Mary Shelley’s famous novel, Frankenstein.

Byron shared the benefits and pitfalls of celebrity.  Affairs and scandals were to follow him throughout his life, including those of sodomy and incest. These things coupled with bouts of depression, extravagant, flamboyant and eccentric behaviour, an extreme temper, a club foot which caused a limp to blight him all his life, Byron certainly had many sources of inspiration.

Following a violent fever, he died, on 19th April 1824, whilst in Greece fighting for their independence. Such was Byron's standing that having been embalmed, the Greeks wanted to keep part of him with them. It is rumoured that either his heart or lungs remain in Greece. Byron's body was returned to England for burial at Westminster Abbey. However, due to "unquestionable morality" the Abbey refused the burial. He is buried at the Church of St Mary Magdalene, in Hucknall, Nottingham. 

He left behind a daughter, The Honorable Augusta Ada Byron, born 1815, who herself holds a notable place in history. It was she, who worked closely with Charles Babbage, the man who was widely regarded as the inventor of the modern computer, and is known for  being the world's first computer programmer.

As a leading figure in the Romanticism movement, Byron was a prolific writer, and it is his work that we wish to share and celebrate today. There have been so many poems to chose; I am sure you each have your favorites. Today I will leave you with three poems, starting with, perhaps, his most known, She Walks in Beauty, 

She Walks In Beauty
by Lord Byron (1814)

She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!

When We Two Parted

by Lord Byron (1817)

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sank chill on my brow— 

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me— 

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:— 

Long, long shall I rue thee

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met— 

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?— 

With silence and tears.

Epitaph to a Dog

By Lord Byron (1808)

Near this Spot
are deposited the Remains of one
who possessed Beauty without Vanity,
Strength without Insolence,
Courage without Ferosity,
and all the virtues of Man without his Vices.

This praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery
if inscribed over human Ashes,
is but a just tribute to the Memory of
BOATSWAIN, a DOG,
who was born in Newfoundland May 1803
and died at Newstead Nov. 18, 1808.

When some proud Son of Man returns to Earth,

Unknown by Glory, but upheld by Birth,

The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe,

And storied urns record who rests below.

When all is done, upon the Tomb is seen,

Not what he was, but what he should have been.

But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,

The first to welcome, foremost to defend,

Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,

Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone,

Unhonoured falls, unnoticed all his worth,

Denied in heaven the Soul he held on earth –

While man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven,

And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

Oh man! thou feeble tenant of an hour,

Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power –

Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust,

Degraded mass of animated dust!

Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat,

Thy tongue hypocrisy, thy words deceit!

By nature vile, ennobled but by name,

Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame.

Ye, who perchance behold this simple urn,

Pass on – it honors none you wish to mourn.

To mark a friend’s remains these stones arise;

I never knew but one – and here he lies. 

images all courtesy creative commons/wikipedia

One Stop Spotlight - The Way to You - a poem by Marlene Giraud

Do you believe in love at first sight when it comes to poetry..? I do... since I stumbled upon Marlene Giraud's poetry at  Qbanpoet during One Shot Wednesday...

The intensity and atmosphere in her writing and the fantastic use of imagery captured me from the very first minute and drew me into the world, she creates with her words..a world you can feel and smell and taste...

Here is what she wrote for us -  relax - take a deep breath - and - enjoy...!!
~ Claudia


The Way to You

1

I drive the same route to see you
the back beaten pathway through horse country,
fields with fences the ponies jump during season,
dead empty for now,
dried up and rusted farm equipment,
the uses for which I have no clue,
but you would.
And you’d explain to me the subtleties of tractor engines
and round service cord or some such thing.
Machinery and names of tools catalogued in your mind.
You’d see how the fences were carved or cut or stained or hauled or built
from this distance
like you can see the dining room tables, arm chairs, floorboards,
desk or dais
waiting to be prepared in planks of wood.
Maybe you can see inside trees to the whorls and markings
and know how old they are
like a dendrochronologist or super hero with x-ray vision.
If you were here,
you’d admire the farm hands, metal workers, wood walkers, groomers, and saddlers
and disdain the polo players’ audience
because they were watching not working.

2

I’m piecing poetry to pop songs
that’d make you grimace,
noticing how odd it is that when you pull up to a stoplight
and look at the neighbor car, they know to look directly
back at you.
I’m aware of burger kings on corners
and boston terriers on sidewalks,
the smell of French fries
and the vision of black and white and fur.
I’m involved in the metaphor of the pine needle
trapped in my windshield wipers
wondering how many times it too has made the journey
to see you.
I see the familiar inland sunset
all rosy purple orange colors
contrasting the digital dashboard green
and gray upholstery of my decidedly girly cruiser.
The vintage style speedometers
versus the suburban sprawl of shopping plazas,
scenes so homey and recognizable
I could close my eyes and steer straight
all the way to you.

© Marlene Giraud




And for those of you, who may have fallen in love as well while reading this, meet the Poet Marlene Giraud - here she's giving us some background information:

I'm 31 years old and work as a nanny. I've been writing since I was a child but poetry became my passion in high school. I became editor of the school's literary magazine and helped create the still running coffeehouse poetry performance night called "Mudslide Cafe." At Eckerd College I continued to write and perform poetry. (The picture on my blog on the About the Poet page is from a performance in college. So old! I need new pictures!) I have a BA in Creative Writing. I wrote a chapbook of poetry called, "'I Care Little for my Body,' She Said." In my adulthood, I've performed at Greenberry's Coffeehouse and because of that I was featured in Wellington Magazine. I belong to the Poets of the Palm Beaches, a non-profit organization dedicated to supporting and encouraging the creation of original poetry in Palm Beach County, Florida. Recently, a friend was encouraging me to start writing again and self publish on the web. I told him I have poetry in my head all day long. It's always there. He asked me how I see the world. I told him I see it in metaphor. Whenever I witness the smallest things the larger worldly meaning comes to me like a beetle bumping repeatedly against my screen porch is a metaphor for our struggle to find meaning in life. He said, "Uh yeah, not everybody thinks that way. You have a gift and it's criminal not to write it down and share it." So, I started Qbanpoet.com.

Moondustwriter Thursdays - Featuring Friend & Poet April Higney

I hope you enjoy April's work. Many times I read her poetry and am inspired to write. I think good poetry has that intrinsic ability to inspire.

Enjoy!!!

Beyond the Flesh

A Poem By April Higney

Sometimes she slips out beyond her flesh,

a soul, travelling upon lands never seen,

drifting along currents, pulled by the moon,

across the rocky earth, fields swaying green.

An astral projection,

to watch the Vortex up high,

along a plateau,

between red sands and the changing magnetic sky.

Swirling with the dust,

that plays along the wind over the ground,

whistling, musical breezes,

her soul has found.

Another soul drifts near,

love within the mind,

passions merge, without fear,

crossing a bridge without looking behind.

Emotions sing along the skin of her soul,

as he makes love to her heart,

embracing the touch in every view,

as though refreshing the paint upon an old piece of art.

His lips, the taste of berries,

or portions of life held sweet.

She slips back into her flesh,

whispers, “one day perhaps, our bodies will meet…”


Photo: The Bridge by April Higney

********************************

Lovers Beneath The Moon 

by Moondustwriter

I laid

beneath the pines

inhaled woodsy scents

watching the moon

catch the edge of our tomorrows

***

You laid

sand crackled under our skin

listening as the waves crashed

watching the moon

play hide and seek

***

I laid

caressed by the dawn

heard things you had done

watching the moon

dance in your eyes

***

You laid

heard the whisper

of your long ago lover

watching the moon

glance upon emptiness

Photo: Look Up by L. Moon

***

So a question to make you writers ponder - What theme / genre do you feel most comfortable writing?

8:15 on Tuesday: prose by Brian Miller

8:15 on Tuesday...

the sun, already making its majesty known, in the sky, passing through pink and orange, unveils a soft blue over the lush green canopy of the forest behind our house. pops and creaks of the wood deck, settling from an evening stretch, accompanies the twitter of birds, in a curious serenade to the new day.

a family of deer shyly poke their heads between trees, then cautiously step across the lawn to nibble at cast off grapes beneath the arbor that stands at the end of the brick path off the back of our house. at their nuzzling, butterflies stir from the vines, performing a dance, dipping and turning.

pungent coffee perfumes the air, rising in waves from my mug, as i draw its warmth through my fingers. this is the moment i realise i have forgotten you.

the sudden realization starts a hammer against the anvil of my chest, a great squeeze grips my heart, crumbling it like paper bound for the trashcan. i want to retreat to the bedroom, to curl on the floor beside the bed, still wrapped in my clothes, closing my eyes to see if i can find you, but i stay, fear of finding nothing pinning to my seat.

you are a fog, barely perceived, there one moment then gone. i tremble, unable to even conjure your face. the touch of your hand, i once relished, erased. all the words once spoken, lay in a jumbled pile in the corner of my mind. i am utterly alone, as the morning unfolds around me, anxious that may you have forgotten me as well at...

...8:15 on Tuesday.

~Brian

Faith, Fiction, Friends: A One Stop Spotlight On Glynn Young

Every Saturday, without fail, Glynn Young posts at Faith, Fiction, Friends, Saturday Good Reads. Having scoured the weeks posts he is diligent in recommending top quality prose, poetry, paintings & photographs. Glynn however is also an accomplished poet in his own right.

At One Stop, Saturdays are my day and it gives me great pleasure to share some of Glynn's work as I spotlight my own Saturday Good Reads.

Of the following two poems, the first, Testimony (In The Closet) is one Glynn wrote a while back. It is a tender piece that is deservedly chosen to be highlighted. The second, the Cemetery Attendant, is an exclusive for One Shot. Both bear testament to his superb talents.

I hope you enjoy Glynn's work as much as I do? I also know he is a favourite of the rest of the One Shot team too, so, on behalf of us all, we give you, Glynn Young<

Testimony (In The Closet): 

A Poem By Glynn Young

Once worn once,

Cocooned within

Transparent film.

White, ivory

Lace covering ivory

Satin.

Neckline ruffled,

Flared sleeves,

Time long past.

In its corner,

On its arch of black wire,

It sleeps

A vigilant rest.

Young softness

Given freely,

Threaded to

Young hardness

Offered openly.

Lace layered on satin,

Becoming one.

His spot-stained hand

Touches clean lace.

The fires still burn, if lower,

Still burn into oneness.

Fingers trace lace,

Graze satin.

Oneness, still.

****************

The Cemetery Attendant: 

A Poem By Glynn Young

I am caught in this

awful space of

remembering

the names that no one

else does, the

names of then,

and the names that

everyone knows, the

names of now.

If you sleep in a cemetery,

the man walking on

the street is dead.

*****************

For more great poetry and an amazing blog please visit Faith, Fiction & Friends.
Thanks for reading,
Pete

A Love That's Lost: A Poem In Memory By Pete Marshall

A Love That's Lost: A Poem In Memory By Pete Marshall

Alzheimers has had a profound affect on my families life. A while back we lost someone very close to us when Alzheimers finally beat him. I wrote a poem about this which some of you may have read before? At this time of year the memory of this person is always on our minds and i wanted to share this again. Alzheimers isn't just about memory loss, and doesn't just affect the person fighting it. My poem, A Love That's Lost, is really a reflection on what happens to those left behind. 

A Love That's Lost

A petal falls so silently

to land and rot amongst the weeds

A roses head tilts & sighs

its stalk been snapped by wicked lies

each day you toil to keep alive

your dreams of love that never die

but weeds grow up and strangle stems

as blood drips from the petals end.

Your lawn was lush and velvet green

now dry & barren like your dreams

and age has caused your bones to tire

your hands are cracked with skin so dry

you mask your pain in solitude

bereft of friends that vanquished you

and as you prune each budding shoot

you snap the growth of disrepute.

Oh how you once was young & free

you bloomed & blossomed flirtingly

each eye you caught would turn a head

but times have passed & lovers left.

A robin sits and watches you

his gentle verse that warms you through

but robins fight & guard their place

whilst you just laughed amidst disgrace.

Indoors he sits a lonely man

across the table his bread & jam

and through the glass he watches you

inside he cries at nothing new.

A once proud man who gave his life

who gave you all as man would wife

and yet here now he sits alone

the man you loved no longer known.

The smile that wooed a million girls

that made you heart a merry whirl

but now the bones are cleansed of meat

his once large frame admits defeat

he grasps for thoughts no longer there

and through the glass he sits & stares

his children come his children go

the names of which he’ll never know.

You made a vow to stand by thee

so still you tend & still you weed

but deep inside you’re very scared

to lose your rock that always cared

yet still you hide in solitude

the pain that hurts inside of you.

 A petal falls so silently

to land and rot amongst the weeds.

*************************************

If you would like to know more about Alzheimers or even donate please visit Alzheimers Society

image courtesy creative commons http://www.flickr.com/photos/iirraa/

Bake until Golden, Sweeten to Taste: A Poem by Shay

A poet that I recently stumbled upon, and has linked up to One Shot, is Shay aka. Fireblossom. Shay has an entrancing style that grips you and just won't let go. The following is a poem from the early days of Shay's Word Garden. Know you will enjoy them, as I do. Thanks Shay! ~Brian

Bake until Golden, Sweeten to Taste: A Poem By Shay

I searched the sun

Which was the color of a sugar cookie,

But in the end,

The day hoarded you for itself--

Leaving my face tilted in the window

Like an empty plate.

So,

I hid my name in a honey jar;

Did you think

A thing as simple as a sweet tooth

Could sing to you like that?

I have many recipes,

But just a single sweetheart;

And I can use many wiles

All for a common cause.

Follow your craving,

I'll be waiting...

Come to my kitchen, now Love, now.

I will distract you with temptations,

And when your eyelids fall to savor,

You'll never notice

The softly closing door.

By the Bay: A Poem Of Forgotten Love In San Francisco Bay By Moondustwriter

By The Bay: A Poem of Forgotten Love 

In San Francisco Bay by Moondustwriter

They were magnetized

by a timeless embrace

for fractions of a moment

*

his eyes  just as entrancing

hers glistened  like diamonds

energy surged thru the pair

*

a single silhouette

caught by the light

reflected on the bay

*

for that brief moment

transferred back

to a distant time and place

*

young love was all

that entered their minds

as they danced beneath the stars

*

the next instant they awakened

to wisps of fog

intertwined in their smiles


****************

Thank you Ingorr for the perfect picture

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/ingorrr/2224220064/in/set-72157600592075972/)

Lost Forever: A Poem By Moondustwriter

Lost Forever: 

A Poem By Moondustwriter

Could you really be

the all encompassing

reality that I need

to return to me???

How can an image

an idea

make a difference

for living breathing flesh?

Yet - your words

speak clear

of me

and you

If 
I believe

I will be

submerged into the swamp

of lost forever

for you see

my heart and I

are intertwined

as I would like to be

with

you!


by Moondustwriter

*******************

Thanks to Oddstock for this entrancing picture

(http://www.flickr.com/photos/oddsock/149183149)

When Two Worlds Collide: A Poem That Celebrates The Strength Of Love

When Two Worlds Collide

I stood there pensive

not knowing where to turn

you decided for me

your strong grasp was firm

The way you pulled me

closer - next  to you

told a story

what we had to do

We  broke our orbit

left the known behind

moved ahead and gathered

all the stars in line

Propelled our beings

toward another path

the unknown - but surely

worth the risk of wrath

In the end they'd find

forever entwined we two

our new world together

never apart from you

by Moondustwriter

*************************    

     

 This amazing photograph:lrargerich's photostream "Sun World" 

courtesy http://www.flickr.com/photos/lrargerich/4002157248