Chad Norman writes

THE RAFFISH, 1821 

Mary sitting in the sand; 

a small sealed box on one knee

Detained, 

missing my carriage,

on a day when shadows 

dared to be rooks,

I was without a reason 

for my English intolerance

--isn't it all sagas, 

how fashion flaunts the Masses!

On the promenade among them 

faces became dim and boring,

my mind sent forth a voice 

loudening in words like "lowly"--

Pisa, 

I shunted your showy peasants!

Curiosity brought about my stroll... 

 Portrait of Jane Williams -- George Clint

Chad Norman writes

AFTER READING THE 3RD CANTO OF BYRON'S Childe Harold, 1817 

Mary hidden behind a boulder;

a small sealed box on top of it

When the excursions made thought

seem last

and needless

the Intellectual rose rested

in the evening's crawl

--is the Summer's forever,

forgotten,

more to memory's pace,

how the mind displays

life dimming to dream?

In a furtive year

after pain felt new

and yearnful

the comparison began

based on the body's cracks

--is the Woman's wider,

longer,

due to love's trust,

how it supplies her heart

with instant answers?

All this escape

I blame on

dear ecstatic Albe !

Few have the scenes of

his smile kept for greetings;

I relive the lake leading

our early easy boat,

how the shore held still

with his vivid welcomes. 

 

 Portrait Of George Gordon -- Thomas Phillips

Chad Norman writes

THE NIGREDO, 1820 

Mary gathering driftwood for a fire;

a small sealed box in a circle of stones

Black,

I tell you the colour is a fiend,

and I do dare reveal

what a vigorous flirt,

after all

no other seduction won

my notions on the fertility of Death,

a morose season

I may soon abjure,

until then may night be suffice

unlike the Past,

when black

snuck from my mind

into the griefless light

of a room,

intending to violate

the brief valour

I woke to behold,

the aching ink

settled

in the page's kind silence,

the fierce erect quill

my tiny life lived within.