This technique can lead to a full comprehension and and deep appreciation for most written pieces. Sometimes analyzing something to death, though, can squelch the joy and pleasure out of it.
I believe that, while the deep analytic understanding of the underlying "information" in Shakespeare and his peers' works is meaningful to some, and very much important to the overall value of such writings, it is not ALL there is to them. At some point, beauty has to be appreciated for its plain, simple, face-value. Artistic excellence can, in fact, reside in the lyrical rhythms as much as in the "deeper meanings".
William Shakespeare created art. Fredrick Turner creates art. I decided, for my final project, to attempt to do the same. So here goes nothin...
Cambria’s Redemption
Waiting
He
waited, albeit nervously, with quiet, gentle resolute
The
lady ‘cross the room in shrouded silk and velvet garb
A
crowd expanses ‘tween them, room hushed all eyes awaiting
For
the silver lady’s speaking, though cold steel lips remain
The
velum veil that masks her face caresses softly midnight curls
A
mystery a dream that though awake she’s surely living
Eccentric
many call her yet the seats are nightly fully filled
Familiar
faces some, and others strangers, wanderers weary
Weeks
and miles traveled every coin to each soul’s name
Is
left with dark-skinned doormen ‘fore the stage can ev’n be seen
No
crystal ball but incense fragrant drifts in windowless draft
A
musty slightly chilling feel creeps through stale and fetid air
The
man’s is one of many tales, wrought with pain and memory
A
tear descends to meet the spot where fades his fastened tie
Though
blink is nonexistent lest his dark rimmed eyes to miss
The
year he saved to catch this moment ‘feard the lone last chance
Seated
near the back his hand is raised when lady long-last speaks
Upraised
it stays though called he’s not, exchanging left and later right
The
hour grows late and heavy a heart grips the weary silent man
Age’d
far beyond his years, time lies only beneath his eyes
In
the lines and in the sadness clear in lonely hollowed cheeks
They
file out, the rich, the boring, haughty in their bleak existence
There
for entertainment many, few for miracles
Their
suits and muffs and monocles would set the tone for opera
Gentlemen
with ivory pipes and ladies bejeweled clutches
Stitched
in silver; a play it is, a stage for false performance,
A
game believed by lady and few a whispering tormented soul
Yet
the man is lost and loosing and has reached his last resort
The
others file out now and lady to shadow vanishes
White
knuckles and a furrowed brow he lingers for the last to leave
Then
makes his way to stageside where he hums soft an eerie tune
Waking
The
melancholy minor tones of mystery and dreaming
A
drop or two now roam his cheek, she hears him call behind the stage
Forth
she comes with uns’prised eyes all-knowing now in simple garb
A
hand extends in feeling, sympathy supposed yet in the dark
Appears
her wise beyond her years he marvels at her tresses silken
Colorless
her lips, her hands, no veil now hides her piercing eyes
Beside
him on the oaken floor she crosses legs and runs her thumb
Beladen
with three silver bands across his lip where rests the tear
Her
eyes reflect the pain and longing churning in his consciousness
Silence
with his unforgiving chokehold now is welcome here
The
tension taut betwixt the man and lady penetrates the still
“I
lost her” now he hoarsely murmurs, albeit expressionlessly
“I
know” replies her silken tone, a seductive drug to hungry ears
“Tell
me about her” a low command; she nears him now though motionlessly
Strong
and heady opium engulfs the man now all-alert
No
further sound he utters and alas, no discourse now is needed
Though
a decade and a lifetime separates two minds now melded
When
their lips and bodies meet the fierceness cultivates releases
He
drinks her in as piquant wine, erotica eludes them though
At
least the human mortal form which based in carnal pleasure lacks
Walking
Smoke
swirls in the pipe she held, visible through opaque glass
And
passed to him with swimming head he once again does draw
Then
clutch his wrists as eyes hers close, moving still beneath their lids
A
droning tune she chants in tone and verse unknown to those still living
And
through the haze that clouds the mind of roused and anxious gentleman
He
hears a voice as in a dream, yet eyes now op’ning catch a glimpse
Hazy
first but clearer coming walks a girl’s translucent figure
“You
are not my bride” says he to waist-length silver curls and weathered skin
“You
are not the love I too soon lost, the aim my presence here”
She
cannot speak, cannot explain, though in his throat the words now catch
A
sharp inhale when in her eyes familiarity faintly flickers
“But
how…” he stammers, lost for words, “you…my wife…yet she is gone”
And
gone so soon yet age’d now so far beyond her timely years
His
mother does appear as this, a matriarch, long-standing queen
A
robber once of many a’ heart yet now an earthly solemn seer
Still,
the girl he called his wife was younger when just a year ago
The
thief called death of plagued disease did filch her and his unborn child
Beyond
a doubt though now before him stands the girl he wed in spring
With
weathered skin and silver hair in smiling eyes the gleam of life still lingers
And
as he stares her beauty grows, surpassing ev’n that flawless day
When
eternity was promised, forever never thought t’would be cut short
His
lover’s age remains unchanged yet changed are his perceptions
Established
in this woman now, beauty in a way uniquely he can understand
But
as he reaches toward her, the sanctified image away does start to fade
Precipitously
frantic he becomes and reaches in desperation
What’s
left lingering as she walks away, a shadow now, then gone her frame
“Don’t
leave” he calls, first loud then whispered, to knees he sinks disheartened
“I
love you” but the earnest words now fall in empty mortal air
A
daydream was it, fantasy of what he most desires, a single instant glimpse of
paradise
Though
far from how the meet had gone when in his waking hour or dream
This
shooting blast of heav’nly light does overtake his musing mind
Yet
as said light burns out so soon so does his smile as angel leaves
Now
left alone with cryptic seer a hollowness engulfs his heart, his mind
She
doesn’t move, just watches him, pure empathy not jealous
Coming
down from heady high together both are motionless
He
rises then to take his leave though back she knows he soon will come
And
at the door he turns to better hear the lass from where she sits
“You’re
best to come in timely form” the deep and cagey voice proclaims
“For
aged as does appear your bride quite limited tis time that’s left”
A
single solemn nod and turning gone is he from furtive hall
No
charming disillusion lives, no needed explanation for heart’s fate
He
walks along the riverside, hands in pockets, eyes cast down
Then
stopping now to stare unseeing at floating murk, the foul debris
A
purgatory or the like she now was in as he had thus presumed
Inherently
he felt her—he had since fated day—as one still undeparted in entirety
Heart
his clenches though as dawns the realizing she soon will go
Beyond
the present in-between to places distantly unknown
For
in one year by mortal scale a half-century has aged the girl
Yet
girl no longer fits her though for age’d don’t approve such terms
He
must go back! soon! tomorrow! before his brides expire completes
Lucidity
returns, though briefly, to wake him from his lingering trance
First
time in months he’d had a purpose, leaving drifting for direction
But
to see the seer again would mean the loss of fortune great
A
privileged affluence that quickly lessens day by dreary, passing day
Pressed
from his mind are menial matters though for on this glorious eve
Cambria,
his love, his life, had shown her flawless face again.
©Annika Stampfel 2013
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