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Anthony Pierre Jul 2020
Night from night remade
with the strangest contemplation
like Gogh's fantasy of sorts... unsorted
hapless, on an empty linen bed
laid, bound in Brixton's *******
Not like the whistler's queen
nor Mona... more unsettling
maybe a strumpet's retreat
Too brisk were strokes in anguish
and forceful a brush, one and another
with all manner of emulsion
Yes? Then too... a little k-y
Art is always made and paid for
The artist is prized
John Myatt's a Masterpiece
It fetched him a sterling glut
John Myatt talent should not be questioned. He was indeed a Masterpiece
Michael R Burch May 2020
Song from Ælla: Under the Willow Tree, or, Minstrel's Song
by Thomas Chatterton, age 17 or younger
Modernization/Translation by Michael R. Burch


O! sing unto my roundelay,
O! drop the briny tear with me,
Dance no more at holy-day,
Like a running river be:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Black his crown as the winter night,
White his flesh as the summer snow
Red his face as the morning light,
Cold he lies in the grave below:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note,
Quick in dance as thought can be,                      
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O! he lies by the willow-tree!
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

Hark! the raven ***** his wing
In the briar'd dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares, as they go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed
All under the willow-tree.

See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my true-love's shroud:
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Here upon my true-love's grave      
Shall the barren flowers be laid;
Not one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

With my hands I'll frame the briars
Round his holy corpse to grow:
Elf and fairy, light your fires,
Here my body, stilled, shall go:
My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.

Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's red blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day:
My love is dead,  
Gone to his death-bed          
All under the willow-tree.
Water witches, crowned with plaits,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die; I come; my true love waits.
Thus the damsel spoke, and died.

The song above is, in my opinion, competitive with Shakespeare's songs in his plays, and may be the best of Thomas Chatterton's Rowley poems. It seems rather obvious that this song was written in modern English, then "backdated." One wonders whether Chatterton wrote it in response to Shakespeare's "Under the Greenwood Tree." The greenwood tree or evergreen is a symbol of immortality. The "weeping willow" is a symbol of sorrow, and the greatest human sorrow is that of mortality and the separations caused by death. If Chatterton wrote his song as a refutation of Shakespeare's, I think he did a **** good job. But it's a splendid song in its own right.

William Blake is often considered to be the first English Romantic. Blake is the elder of the so-called “big six” of Blake, William Wordsworth, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Lord Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley and John Keats. I would add the great Scottish poet Robert Burns, making it a big seven. However, I believe Wordsworth, Coleridge, Shelley and Keats actually nominated an earlier poet as the first of their tribe: Thomas Chatterton. Unfortunately, Chatterton committed suicide in his teens, after being accused of literary fraud. What he did as a boy was astounding.

On this page, I prove that Thomas Chatterton could not possibly be guilty of the crime he was accused of:

Keywords/Tags: Chatterton, Romantic, Rowley, fraud, forger, forgery, roundelay, minstrel, song, Aella, willow
Justise Rieves Dec 2016
I never meant to love you.
I never meant to ransom my heart
for lies that'll linger long after
the ashes from these brittle bones
soil the earth.
I never meant to find myself in the
center of your storm: heartsick.
My mind a chamber
for me to rot, a kingdom for you
to thrive.
I never meant to confuse peonies
for roses. And you -- you
never meant to hurt me.
I think I'll never trust anyone again.
Kelly Hogan Sep 2016
I forge a smile
Like a signature.
The one you see
Is not my own.
Just a well illustrated
Sobriquet Apr 2016
How can I blame you for your broken parts?
for a flaw that was hammered into your bones by another
until you thought it shaped the way you sit inside your skin

How did you get to be this way, you ask
how do you hide your pain to help me lessen mine?
how do you love me, both craven and curious ?

Because, I find no joy in the pain I could inflict
which for only a second would ease the dull ache in my belly.
Because I have welded myself  together from the scrapmetal anger creates, countless times
Tasting only iron and rage
and my bones are stiff from the reconstruction of yet another life.

I forgive you because you are as human as I am,
just as tired of the forgery which has weakened the frame that builds you.
Because you now control the hammer
let it build you,
or let it break you
Rhianecdote Nov 2014
A lot of us aren't fully what we make out to be
but a lot of us are sincerely trying to be and I believe beauty still lies in the forgery if you see it for what it is...
mark john junor Aug 2014
the empires silk wraps the parchment
blue and gold ribbon of such regal device
but this neat folded apparel
tangles in my mind
with fog of memories frame
door table tray
the parchment bears the blessings
but the ink is as black as his heart
cold as his intent
child i was
child no more
forged instrument misshapen
a single paper cup of jungle juice spilled
haphazardly on the clean lines
the parchment adorned with the
phrase and emblems of republic
stained with my child's mind
child i was
child no more

— The End —