The brain rots, the mind dies,
The exalting spirit must fall,
No matter how hight the inspired lark climbs
Like us, it tires of the All.
So it descends from lofty peaks of joy,
And the spires of subliminity,
To rest amid the mundane world,
And plan its next trip to ecstasy.
***
Dear readers,
As I wrote this, I had just finished several hours of solid writing, and was knackered. I imagine some of you can understand the feeling.
Kind regards,
The Hapless Neo-Romantic
At my fingertips the pen, the needle,
The hammer, anvil or saw,
The bubbling pot or the iron spade,
The tool does not matter, but the sensation
Of creation, of a work from my hands,
Be it a poem, a novel, cross-stich, a tapestry,
A house or a table, a statue or a ring,
A monster, sewn from human remains,
Or a stew like those from home,
To watch a new thing from my mind
Become tangible and rise
From my imagination, my soul, into reality.
***
Dear readers,
This is, very simply, an ode to the act of creation. I’ll admit, the title was inspired jointly by The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Frankenstein, which explains the rather macabre line about monsters.
Kind regards,
The Hapless Neo-Romantic
All heaven
Resounded, and had earth been then, all earth
Had to her centre shook.
Milton, Paradise Lost, Book VI, 217-219
All heaven resounded, the canyons and forests of the world
Rang with the sound of that moment; In that moment
Trees could walk and stones could sing, mountains dance,
Ending their ageless slumbering to rejoice in my delighting.
My body thrilled to feel these echoes, relentless,
Returning to the place from whence they came, a single word
From a single pair of perfect lips, and then
All creation from the deepest caves to the
High-arched vault of heaven. All this
Reverberating with her single word; and that word was
Yes.
The Hapless Neo-Romantic 