Byron, Your Poetry Sings To Our Wanting Hearts
He gave us images, the raving beauty far within
and romantic dancing words that ate up the eager page
he met the world head on and absorbs into his white skin
Ahh but, a great calamity he dies at a young age.
In dreams I see him, singing great poems all dressed to kill
His countenance, that of a handsome prince on a new lark
Yet when reading his poetry, don't you get such a thrill
Man was a poetic genius, certainly left his mark.
That of great beauty, his life's tragedy, death far too young
Verses he sang to us, such true and deep pleasures they gave
And those magical words, translated into many tongues
O' the deep truth, millions of readers read and then they rave.
Lord Byron, your words have often soothed desirous souls.
Poets honor you and take your deep accomplishments our goals.
Robert J. Lindley, Sonnet
June 10th, 1971
Note: Lord Byron is one of the top three Romantic poets- Byron , Keats and Shelley. I have often mused which was the greatest poet among those three.
At different times in my life I have decided each one as the greatest. And now I favor Keats...
Rockstar status known decades ago,
Imagined greatness you alone,
Infused lines to inspire yet unordained,
Dark recesses breathing life unexplained,
A lord born of chance to pursue chosen prose,
Wound about poisonous flesh the desire,
Youth requitted and melancholic haunts,
Playing redemption to political jaunts,
Life bright burning a fever too extreme...
Lord Byron aka George Gordon
a privileged Baron's son
In poetry found instant fame
wine,women & words daily game
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!
This is not my poem and
written by Lord Byron.
Lord Byron poet extraordinaire
lived life& loved sans a care
His daughter Augusta Ada King
programming Babbage Engines was her thing
Who reads Tomas Moore
reads much more of Lord byron
as Anacreonte
My way is not that far
my path is not that black tar
my bicycle is deflated
but your heart is inflated
i go in peace and war the way i came
all i see in my eye is a blank game
your yellow pale face
turning shifts like a phase
the crescent waits for me
as the horizon sinks deep in the tree
roses are now dried
our wedding ring is now fried
let me go my way
till i will forget this day
One dark and stormy night, when half my life lay behind me ?I wandered from the straight and narrow path too far.
And took my heart for a ship’s compass
All through the darkness, I followed no course, no path but my own. ?
With only unlimited darkness before me
Above that darkness, there was no guiding star. ?
That had once guided kings and shepherd alike. ?
When you are born blind only the darkness can see your way.
While death’s cold hands pluck at one's terrors and fears.?
Gladly the dreads I felt are too dire to retell,
The hopeless, pathless, lightless times forgotten,
I turn my tale to that which next befell,
When the true dawn opened
and the dark night was no longer my guide.
Paraphrased from the opening to Dante's Inferno.
She was created of earth's lusty marrow,
lived amidst chimera and heather fields
breathing Byron essence & Dickinson fire,
there was madness in the poetry of her life
an atmosphere favorably self-aware
mundane was ne'er her cup of fancy
In death, she was found to be quite lucid
'tween exiled days and windswept expanses
of untrodden woodlands & lone seascapes,
perchance glimpse her twilit ambiance
whispering beyond breezes of conclusive
horizons void of derived worldly silhouettes
COLORIZE THE CLASSICS contest 10/2/16
While browsing in a second hand book store
The blue cover of your book caught my eye.
Your first edition then guided my path
Into reading your wondrous words of love.
Quite new to the engagement of your works
I stood reading as near an hour flew by.
I became enthralled and mesmerized too.
Your classic speech bared salubrious style.
As the longing in your words permeate,
Your philosophy of life and living.
This be my pattern to which I succumb
Trying to emulate words of your song.
Trying to guild my words into flowing
Into gifts I never dreamed to possess.
I felt this magical pull emanate
To venerate psalms that dwell in my heart.
6-1-17
Blank Verse II - Poetry Contest
Sponsor Janice Canerdy
I
There was a Roamer,he was deeply sick,
Debt to th'immenseness of his gift:
He has so power as to be weak,
They were so freely as to be not lift.
II
Thus his fate with bless could not be shift,
And the shade of morn colour'd his eyes:
Through their source the light was rift,
Though their iris were dread dries.
III
The surroundigs of his bold were gray's,
And the centre of his aim unsung;
To his hermous grave no one will cries,
To his height no stair- could has been rung.
IV
And Who is He? When he'll be sprung?
May someone knows where is his loom?
Whose wind will blow his bloodless lung?
The immortal strings, the Hand, the strum?
V
A lightings' path yet cleaves the gloom,
And unnamed swarms deeping the leak,
Alas! Shall now we fear his mark of doom,
While the face of Hope's- becoming lirk?
Or is this it, what has been seek?
An earthworm's home you wouldn't like
It's cold and damp and full of night
Still, It's where I am and can only be,
When I scribble and wiggle hope you see,
How hard to write immortal poetry,
While watching out for greedy birdies,
When rains wash me along the gutters,
Helplessly drowning, my heart flutters,
Suddenly over the gutter crawl,
And burrow into earth under garden wall,
In darkness may live, but full of light,
Fearing rain, but still scribble in delight,
In humility offer these poetic scribbles,
Penned with few words and lots of wiggles.
Shall I believe that you are not like me?
A dog is but a wolf no longer wild,
and though you are a faithful friend, I see,
you are four-footed like no human child,
my boy; and though you answer to the name
the same the brilliant poet reprobate,
there somewhere in my brain is the refrain:
each species God did separately create.
But Wallace fed by spoon his little pet
orangutan, and longed to take her home
to England’s soil, where Darwin’s tree upset
conventional belief. And I must own:
that when your gaze unblinking holds my eyes
I know our likeness cannot be despised.
Lord Byron—Genius Unchained
Primus-Supremus-Romanticus
George Gordon Noel Byron
Destiny in Missolonghi at 36
A soldier’s death.
Legendary immortality
Mega-accomplishment
For him the best
And now he’s at rest.
Gary Bateman, Copyright © All Rights Reserved,
May 6, 2015 (Double Dactyl)
On Lord Byron
Far away from thistle and thorn
a genius and great poet was born
Lord Byron was his great name
making love with words his game
The world had him not very long
his verses danced like a song
Women swoon at his written charms
those chosen loved in his arms
He was born to many a woman bed
excesses raced in his wild head
Often crazy and without any cares
he juggled many hot love affairs
Fate lusted to grab him too soon
as he shown like the August moon
Sadness invaded his hectic life
in dying, he left his poor wife
Far away from thistle and thorn
a genius and great poet was born
Lord Byron was his great name
making love with words his game
Robert J. Lindley
06, 22, 1970
Note- Written so long ago. Edited today, shortened by two stanzas....
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