#neoromantic poetry

[rainbowcastleintheclouds]

A fruit bat's ode to the night

The night is....

Peaceful....Tranquil...

I pirouette under the moon

The bullfrogs sing ...

the crickets croon...

The night she speaks as a dance

A timeless embrace a blissful romance

A sweet soiree

A raspberry yogurt parfait

A far better thing than the fury of Day

Ever do my little feet pitter patter

Skip gallop and run

I am free and nothing matters

I wish I could turn off the sun

I feel full of flight

Effortless light

Wings with fur not feathers

The world is my playground

I am a tiny bat

Now and forever

I bathe in dew to beat the heat

I hang by my tiny feet

I seek a food that is ethical and kind

I've got berries on my mind

Nature's candy grows on trees

As sweet sands waft from saltwater taffy seas

I dance, I drift, I do ballet

Spirits uplift until the day

When I return to my little cave by the sea

And snuggle with my colony

A tiny bat will I always be

And that's okay, okay for me

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Original poem- Willow's Wrath

The lake was glistening with moon-milk,

Lilies floated on water-glass,

Their elegant roots a-swaying

As green and as placid as glass.

It was there where she met Mr. Tripthorne,

Sweet Annemarie, with rose-budded cheeks-

She glanced him once, and from then on,

He was all she could think of for weeks.

And when he returned to the moon-lake,

The lilies she wove in her hair-

He thought he glimpsed a nymph of old

Long-limbed, golden, and fair.

Tripthorne stood, enchanted by moonlight,

Dazzled, bewitched by this dryad,

Annemarie in turn gazed his way, flustered,

Her blue eyes rivaled those of a naiad.

He asked her, “Miss, what shall I call you?”

She replied, “Sir, my name’s Annemarie-

If you desire to meet me once more,

Come at twilight to yon willow tree.”

And so Tripthorne made her a promise,

Clasping her hand to his breast,

And dutifully, he waited til the following night,

Faithful, by love, to her request. 

Indeed, she was there, framed by branches,

Lily-woven locks flowing past limber limbs,

He’d never felt his heart so impassioned,

As she smiled and beckoned to him.

After sunset, his lips brushed her cheekbone,

Under moonlight, her lips locked against his,

Under starlight, his arms clutched her waistline,

Under sunlight, she said to him this-

“Good day to you, Mr. Tripthorne,” 

And turned to leave, but twas he who said,

“Annemarie, it is I who love you,

And by next week, we shall be wed.”

The following week there were church bells,

And vows and ceremony and lace,

Annemarie, all the while, apprehensive-

Only thrice before had she seen this man’s face.

At first, there was bliss, and nothing but bliss

Of the pomegranate nights they shared,

She didn’t know his first name and he didn’t know her last,

But in those days, neither one of them cared.

But alas, time would pass as it always does,

She saw him as frigid and cold,

And viewed through his eyes, she was never satisfied

By him, though he bought her jewels and gold.

Yes indeed, their union was torture,

When they dined, they had nothing to say,

Oft hadn’t they bed since right after they wed,

So it was, night by night, day by day.

She languished and sighed, and he wanted to die

Woe be upon that night at the lake!

The lilies, the lovers, the light of the moon-

Not a blessing, but a cruel curse of fate!

One day, Tripthorne went to the market,

A fair sight did his eyes behold-

Not a willow-nymph maiden, but a society lass,

Her hands adorned with rings of gold.

He knew that he should walk away,

That what he felt wasn’t right nor fair,

But fate must have brought them together, he thought,

And how enchanting was her golden hair!

He asked her, “Miss, have you been married?”

She said, “I have not, sir, why?”

With the last dying light of regret in his heart,

He smiled and said, “neither have I.”

Said he, “madam, my name is Tripthorne,”

Said she, “sir, my name’s Josephine.”

Her eyes, how they sparkled, like diamonds

Set in raiment worn by the Queen.

Josephine, in his thoughts as he walked home,

Josephine, not the old willow-tree,

Josephine, with her jewels and her golden hair,

Not a single inkling spared for Annemarie.

And so oft he returned to the market;

Their meetings transformed to a tryst,

They fled every night to the churchyard,

Their passions obscured by moon-mist.

How supple her hands were, how graceful!

How deep were her sighs, how serene!

How more precious than diamonds were the pleasures

Bestowed by the fair Josephine!

One fateful day, Annemarie told him,

“I’ve received word my mother is ill,

I’m visiting her in the country,

To relieve her of sickness and chills.”

Alas, Tripthorne was quite unaware

No truth resided in what she’d said

For Annemarie had no such mother-

The fact was, for years, she’d been dead.

So he sent her off to the country,

Where all was yet tranquil and green,

And the moment she’d left, he took out a pen,

And wrote to his dear Josephine.

“Dearest love, I declare in earnest,

That I cannot tell when we shall wed,

But let’s not lie in the gloom of the churchyard-

Let us trade it for the comforts of my bed.”

Josephine arrived soon, in a day’s time-

Rosy-red, and unshrouded by mist

Tripthorne welcomed her, heart beating madly

And greeted her with a deep kiss.

Said he, “love, you are radiant this evening,

The sun has set, and the night has begun-

How I will treasure our delight

Once you and I become one.”

Said she, “so at last, you speak of marriage!”

For tonight, I shall answer your plea-

At last, we bring an end to this lovers’ game-

As I stand before your bended knee!”

Said he, “I’ve said soon, and again I say soon-

For my darling, you must understand,

I hardly have but a cent to my name,

So I cannot yet ask for your hand.”

Josephine answered, “why, my beloved,

Your wealth does not matter to me-

Let us run far away, to some distant shore

To a small, lonely cottage on the sea.”

Yet that night, they made love on the mattress,

Awash in the light of the stars,

And yet, so sunk in their intimate bliss,

Neither noticed the door was ajar.

It was late at night when the wind whistled,

The sheets over their bodies began to billow,

From the window-frame came the dreadful scratching

Of ten thousand claw-branches of willow.

Vines snaked around the bedposts,

Roots erupted from under the floors,

The lovers watched in horrified silence,

At the creaking, opening door-

And then She was there in the doorway!

Towering, glowering, green!

Her white-flame eyes burned like scorned moonlight,

As she surveyed Tripthorne and Josephine-

“Shame on ye, the wretched unfaithful!”

Came the voice of the verdant deity-

Tripthorne paled, for he knew at once

That this could be none but sweet Annemarie!

“My darling, have pity! Forgive us!”

He, stammering and stuttering, said,

“Nay!” she commanded, “for you are dishonest,

And defile our marriage bed!”

And with that, Annemarie raised her right hand

As she piercingly wailed in the dark,

The lovers each looked on in horror

As their skin turned to cold willow-bark.

“I beg you,” Josephine cried in horror,

“Please, set your just curse aside!

For he told me that he was unmarried-

It was unknown to me you were his bride!”

“Leave this place,” Annemarie thus commanded,

“And nevermore shall you return,

Only once will I grant you my mercy;

Woe betide you if you fail to learn.”

Josephine fled the bed, out the doorway,

As Tripthorne intended pursuit-

But he found that he could not so much as stand

For his feet had become willow roots.

Screams escaped his mouth as his blood turned to sap;

It filled his throat, drowning his pleas,

But they would have mattered little, as they would have fallen deaf

On the ears of Annemarie.

His arms and his fingers extended to branches,

That twitched, then stopped moving for good,

As his wife looked on, her expression was blank

As she watched flesh turn to wood.

As for his soul, it still burned alive,

But never again would he sleep;

For in his place stood the willow-

The tree that eternally weeps.

A hundred years passed, and the house is long gone,

No one hears of Tripthorne and Annemarie,

But on moonlit nights, when the wind blows just right,

One can hear the cries of the willow tree.

And still lovers meet under its branches,

Blessed by moon and stars above,

And yet cursed to endure them forever

Is the soul of the man who scorned love.

[radio--katsuyu]

In the Court of an Atlantean Queen

In accents of the lute where I was dwelling, I heard in cascades of a time departing, The faerie voices ancients fires quelling And novel fires on their altars starting.

Oh how the throng of voices in the river That ran nearby a stalwart temple, swaying Like bees whose membran'd wings in trembles quiver, Sang in the face of stone, I sat dismaying:

Was there a secret in this grotto waiting For shuffled minds to ravish graves and chances, Ancient stories in remembrance hating New attempters trying ancient dances,

Or was the secret place of marble glory And porticos that hung with heavy heaving Lungs relieving figures in the hoary Hours of death that they were not believing?

In circles spread a play of light and folly, And through the foils of aspens came a scene That laid the time long past and life as jolly As once the court of an Atlantean Queen.

The queen sat golden in the wake and pondered, Her eyes were full of love and still the glimmer From minds that heard her stood and shone and wandered, Where was all that that she had burning in her.

She spoke in speech forgotten in this hour, Reserved her eyes with nothing to behold, But when a story of some grace would lour Spread light and glory with an look of gold.

The music of the court was hers to carry, A kingly love to cherish and entrance, Her consort would not shuffle, move or tarry, If it was not for her to sing and dance.

It was a time of peacocks, doves and starlings, They ferried through the birds of song and light And chipper'd through the waveless creeks as darlings Bound by but love that held them fair and tight

And drew them softly through the verdant world -- And back the faerie voices called the greening Foliage that over me unfurled, And left me with an image and its meaning;

Bestowed no doubt from goddesses she mustered The fullness of a memory to keep Each note unfurled in accents taut and flustered A small child's wish when it would go to sleep.

The last note wavered on the sundown planes, The temple and the circles blue with sleeping, Disturbed the light and closed their shimmered panes, And left a note for cherishing and keeping:

No such wild grace hath ancient sites to share, Nor men or women could in dreaming ween, The harmony that one soft look can bear As in the court of that Atlantean queen. © 2022.

[traumatocampa]

[bill-boethius]

(Bill Boethius)

[thevampirevegan]

“Love’s blood spills over. Betrayal and distrust. A thousand screaming cherubs weep at the death of these affections. For a broken heart is but a footstool for the soles of despair.”

-A Poem by Caspian Salvatore (Myself)

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[dsljkfhskjd]

[todosomosinvisibles]

[lesamis]

Hiya lili, Do you have any recs for works by more minor Romantics or Non western European ones? (or anything by/with a focus on women/poc, even if neoromantic?)

hi anon! thank you for asking me, although i’m afraid i’m not a very good person to ask. my degree had a pretty narrow focus on romantic responses to the french revolution & didn’t cast a very wide net, but i can recommend this (very new!) book that addresses some of the pitfalls of romantic canonisation & makes a start at rehabilitating a few works & writers. there are quite a few women writers i can give pointers to; for romantic writers of colour, like you said, neo-romantic movements are probably your best bet (although it’s pretty widely accepted that leigh hunt, for instance, wasn’t white), but i’m far too unfamiliar with neo-romanticism to be of much help there. 

speaking personally, the writer of the romantic era i most wish still had a wider audience is joanna baillie. she was a more prolific and popular dramatist at her time than any of the big name romantics, and i think her plays are innovative and chilling and cinematic, but you’ll rarely find her on a curriculum. i highly recommend orra and, if you can get your hands on it, constantine paleologus. also, this delightful long poem on a cat. 

psyche by mary tighe is absolutely stunning. few writers of the period received such recognition for a work on a classical theme (you didn’t hear this from me but keats, who admired tighe, could never), and her verse translations of the aeneid are a wonderful read as well. 

some lesser known works by felicia hemans might be interesting to you:

the last song of sappho

indian woman’s death song

woman on a field of battle

the better land

abolitionist poetry was also quite frequently written by female writers of and adjacent to the romantic era; see hannah more, ann yearsley, or anna laetitia barbauld. 

the final word on canonisation is absolutely never spoken & we can probably expect to add quite a bit to this list within the next 20 years, but maybe this can help get you started, anon :’)

[tintind]

I was wondering how can I like either complicated&elaborated Tolkien's mythology and such stupid stuff like Twilight. (redoing a well-known phrase: no one hates Twilight more than the fans).

And then I've tried to remember others literary genres and authors I love. And there was like... Victor Hugo, Henryk Sienkiewicz, Ulažimir Karatkievič. Selma Lagerlöf. Historical fiction of neoromantism. Albert Camus, Vasil Bykaù, Fedor Dostoevsky. Modernism and existentialism. In poetry - also romantics and (post-)modernists.

And Twilight just,,,has the potential of all those genres??? Vampires in literature are the invention of romantism, aren't they? And SMeyer tries to build her own mythology. And the first book with his "I've never thought about dying" pretend to be so,,, Sartre's??? And when I read it in my 10 it felt like this. I suppose.

Good Lord.......

Twilight has defined my preferences in literature.......

[sbowen]

Francesco Clemente

I find his newest clouds quite interesting. Certainly not abstract compositionally (well, not intended to be), they are about an abstraction of an idea. And as a painter it’s hard not to be drawn to their quiet poetry.

Related- they make me realize how much I’ve changed (I found the neoromantics to be pretty ridiculous when I was in art school and they were having their day).

#francescoclemente

[drowningparty]

My ultimate aesthetic is Marc Bolan circa 1968, when he was just a pretty penniless pagan witch-wizard stalking the streets of London in a long black cloak & ballet shoes, writing neoromantic poetry, putting hexes on his enemies & trying real hard to levitate

[sixty-silver-wishes]

Original poem- Memories of a Wooded Walk

‘Twasn't long ago, I wist-

The river outstretched past the trees-

The brutal sun, the sighing breeze

And perchance, passerby would see

Within this portrait, you and I.

The years did stretch our meetings thin

But woods, rocks, and water were there all the same-

All at once, changed and unchanged

Ebbing, eroding, dying, growing, they remained

To us, a vined and mossy frame.

And so, if my memory does serve me well-

We meandered through this picture-frame,

Til the sun sank low and the sky was dark,

In velvet violet, and we conversed-

Of things we did and had not yet done, 

To sail past the moon, the stars, the sun,

And voyages still not yet begun,

Dreams unrealized, unspoken til then.

Was it by meadow, glade or glen

Where we first fell to contemplation’s trance?

A marshy mire, a mirror reflected

In puddle, pool, or pond, by chance?

No matter- in any case, twas far

Far enough, at least, from concrete walls

And lifeless life, fleet-footed time

Were not of our reprieve’s domain.

But here, Chronos occupies my mind and soul,

He vies for my hand, my thoughts, my heart-

Declares he is elusive, cares not for art

As what else so deftly cheats his gaze?

His constant chimes rule the realm of man,

Ashes scattered in wake of his sweeping hands,

The tintinnabulation of his ticking tolls til each final demand.

Oh! Should we journey once more to that wooded sphere

Where we should talk, and he cannot hear!

[warnings-and-lions]

Tal vez me haga de piedra, esperando a que te asemejes a lo que mis sueños inventan. O tal vez me convierta en arena y me consuele con tus pasos y tus cantos de sirena. Probablemente me sumerja con la tierra, pretendiendo que te he enterrado junto al olvido de mis penas. Qué fácil es esconderse tras mil puertas, como si pudiéramos engañar a las almas que, mudas, se observan. Y qué difícil es ver cómo se aleja con las olas en el infinito mar, y mis delirios aquí se quedan. Con las ganas exprimiéndome las venas, yo soy mendigo de una historia que el destino dejó a medias.

"Éstábamos destinadas a medias" (Poemario de Cartas a una Extraña ✒ ayna)

[traumatocampa]

[jillmckenzie1]

Lost Lake Weekend Lineup

Lost Lake Lounge is one of Denver’s most beloved local bars. For nearly a decade it’s been a prime spot to see up and coming bands from all styles and genres. The lake house decorum works surprisingly well for the Colfax dive. Its small stage and limited floor space create an intimate setting, and every show is a close encounter.

Friday, August 16th, Lost Lake welcomes Tommy Freed and the Sound. Their music is smooth, melodic, and soulful. Their debut album, Come on Shining, has roots in the blues, but branches out to include some indie and pop influences. Singer/songwriter Tommy Freed has found the perfect fit with the Sound, and they’re breaking out their special blend of bluesy, psychedelic rock with special guest Sammy Kay. Tickets are only twelve bucks, doors are at 8.

Saturday, the 17th, it gets a little heavier with Of Man and Machine, Phantom Host, Thoughtpilot, and We Are William. Of Man and Machine has become a household name in the Denver metal scene. They blend elements of alternative, hardcore, and death metal to create a constantly evolving sound. Their latest album, The Void Architect, showcases the aggressive vocals and intricate guitar solos the band is known for. Expect a high energy performance.

Phantom Host is a local progressive/hardcore group. Forming in 2015 as a studio project, they released their first EP in 2015 and another in 2016. Now the trio has decided to make the leap to a live band, releasing their latest EP, Winter, in January of this year. Their music is mesmerizing, with melodies that build into jarring breakdowns and highly technical guitar riffs.

Thoughtpilot is made up of five members from across the nation, convening in Denver with the sole purpose of creating epic metal. Thoughtpilot brings fans ecstatic guitar solos, low end distortion, and an impressive range of brutal vocals. Their debut album, Through the Lens, is heavy and melodic, with emphasis on creative percussion and breakdowns.

We Are William is a prog rock band based in Fort Collins. Their broad spectrum of influences and experimental approach make this band hard to define. Their sound combines theatrical backing tracks, well balanced compositions, and strong vocals from lead singer Sebastian Lawrence, who has a background in reggae. Their debut EP, La Discesa, dropped last year, and is based on Dante’s, The Divine Comedy.

Sunday, August 18th, Miniluv headlines with performances from Narcissa and Old Soul Dies Young. I have to admit an automatic bias towards Miniluv based on their inclusion of not only the trumpet, but spoken word poetry as well. These elements are an unusual and incredibly welcome addition to their progressive/hardcore style. Miniluv is loud, heartfelt, and intense. They bring audiences a definitively unique sound that you will not see anywhere else.

Narcissa is an indie/metal band that’s been making big waves in the local music scene. That four-man outfit released a demo tape titled Hum, in March of last year. Since then, they’ve been playing shows all over the state with bands like Neoromantics, Zealot, and Polaroid Antarctica. Their music draws on jazz, noise, metal, and punk influences. Narcissa is scheduled to start recording their highly anticipated debut EP in September. Maybe they’ll bust out some previously unheard jams, maybe they’ll do an entire set of Incubus covers. Come find out.

Old Soul Dies Young is billed as an “anime love story without a happy ending.” Since 2017, they’ve released four singles and a full-length album titled, One More Final: I Love You. Their music is a lo-fi mix of dreampop, animecore, and indie rock, with trancey, haunting vocals. Their next EP, Yandere, drops next month.

Lost Lake Lounge is a local favorite for a reason; actually, a dozen reasons. Come rub elbows with all the other cool kids on East Colfax, and witness for yourself some of the spectacular music pouring out of the Denver underground scene. Tickets for all these shows are cheap and on sale now at www.lost-lake.com.

from Blog https://ondenver.com/lost-lake-weekend-lineup/