Maud I hate the dripping dark hollow behind the little wood; Its tips a cursed maroon with a blood-red heath. I think I praised and lamented it too soon; Before seeing its scent; I saw already its stray mystical death. My crown is torn, outraged by florid winds and scorn; Like a tangled old roots of the windblown thorn; I shall feel scanty by my own poetry, And throw it about, duly, like a static little joke. I shall let my heart grow dull and illiterate; I shall not taste joy, no more, in any clear--flowery fate. I shall seek everything bitter, and not sweet; Even not pure as the honey of a bee; for it shall be plain. I shall curve and bend any straightforward light; I shall harass it, and blind it--as if my ghost’s dead soul is very not here. Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud; Perhaps she is astray in my memory still, and not by my side. I feel relieved so soon as glanced at her beside me; She owns still that full lips like a perniciously tasty moon; She is adorable like the flower of heaven itself; She strikes me again when away, and tosses me about when near. Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud; Tame me again with thy rain of laugh; Saint me once more like a fresh young bird; Come to me now, and return my unheeded love. Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud; And kissing her forehead takes me back to that day; A day of myths, a day of agile swans and storms; An ornate time of hatred; a whirl of bitter fate; a dust of sorrow. Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud; And again I was alive in this tale, with a burning heart; On one eve of tears, a mischief, and a wan poetry; I caught about shadows in which there was no soul of Maud. I could only see the stones, lying ghastly about the fireplace; Ah, Maud, are you but still haunting those whimsical moors? Their strange murmurs but I cannot hear; But still they consume me, ah, I am scared; I wish they would be gone soon, I wish you were but here. These storms were amusing but peculiar; They are bizarre, but intelligent and stellar; And calling thy name out but breathes into me strength; Ah, but should I be here, and bear away thy image alone? Ah, and thou wert in but nymphic and lilac dream; And my heart was still not massaged by the tender storm; For it meant thee, and hungered but for thee only; And in the midst of love had it longed, and yearned for thee. Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud; Her with her childish eyes and rounded head of bronze, With her rapturous steps and wild glittering aroma, With her atrocious jokes, and a wintry secret touch? But still she was not anywhere about; She dissolved like one romantic bough of soda; And within a rough joke, she would be but gone; And now the storm returned, but I was wholly on my own. Ah, and now the striking storm is mounting the earth; Should I write alone and chill myself by the green hearth? For I hath nothing to console and lengthen my parched logs; I shall wait outside and drift about yon wintry bog. Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud; Maud with her heart-shaped face and bare voice aloud; A voice that soaked my senses and craving throat; Maud but teased me and left me to that joke. Where is but Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud; Maud, the goth princess within my ancient poetry; Who but remained symmetrical and biblical in her vain torments; Who but stayed sturdy and silent; amidst her anger, and vain fellows’ arguments. Listen to me. I am but full of hatred. I am neither a gentleman nor a well-bred; I, who is just a son of an infamous parson; A malleable son; with a bleak aura of a putrid spring. I, one who crafted ingenious jokes; But interminable as they always are; I made Maud sit still as I held my woodwork; While she perched herself on yon bench, gazing at dispersed starry stars. Maud the shadow in my pale mirror; At times she ceased at morns, but retreated at night; On her brother’s sight she fled in horror; But on mine her smile turned me bright. Maud was idle, sparkling, vibrant, and tedious; Her heart was free and not marred by stupor. She was the sun on my very bright days; She made me startled; she always left me curious. Maud the green of the farm, the red of the moon; Without her everything would spring not and remain odious; Everything would be bleak and stayed tedious; Ah, but still I could not own her, though I was her saviour. I was a farmer and perhaps still am; Perhaps that’s why her mother ditched me with shame. Maud said she had not places like home; Her house was the mere shallow--and gratuitous throne. Maud came often down and agitated; Her mood shadowy, she cried and cried too aggravated; I caressed her back, and placed my palms on her white knees; She told me stories whenever no-one else would see. She wanted not to mount the throne; She giggled often, at our country escapade; She loved my cottage, she sweetened my thin grass; Even those apple trees had then her eyes, which sprayed tough, lonely seas of green. Maud took to hymn and dear children’s little songs; She was popular always among the talkative throngs. She would love to dance and wiggle and turn around; While village pupils gathered to sing a noble sound. Ah, but when the mirthless prince arrived; With white horses and swords of a knight; Maud was swallowed every morning, all through day and night; Maud was no more seen by my side. I thought I was not alive, for dreams were unreal; If they had been, then they I’d have want’d to kill; But seeing Maud not gave me fretful chills; I often woke up tensely, within a midnight’s shrills. Ah, where is but Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud; Maud my bumblebee and my delicate little honey. I kept waiting for her behind the rustic brook; I fetched my net and fished by my old nook. Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud; My eyes were still and my chest could no more speak. I wearily fancied she had been kidnapped faraway; She would be jailed in a sore realm, and would no more be back here. Ah, for had she been lost, then I had lost my ultimate pearl; For there would no more be magic, there would be no more of her; No-one would so restore my original spring; Perhaps there would be no spring at all, and I would suffer in summer. And I would lose anyway--my lyrical, elusive demon; For Maud had always been elusive herself. She wore that evil smile and thin laugh; As I told her tales of fairies that she loved. As I am fond of magical poetry and dramas; Maud too used to read them with genuine personas. She was my epic fanatical little devil; She liked tropical cold and a faithful Mephistopheles. I should be Faust, as she once said; For had I fair hair, yet a bald head; She said like Faust, I was cleverly amusing; But to me, like Mephistopheles--she was unusually entertaining. She danced before me a beautiful ballet; She was young and keen to levitate as a ballerina; She crafted me limericks and such fair lines of sonnets; She made earth my heaven, and my melodies a twin cantata. Ah, and where is Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud; I need my butterfly amongst this wheezy curdling cold. I need my lover to soothe my chained hysteria; I need to get out of here, and feed my love with her charms. Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud, is not she here? I was then screaming in my solitude, could she but not hear? I could speak not, no more--sore and wounded by this snowstorm; I crept sick and weak like a dumb old worm. She was not even heard of upstairs; While I was dying here as a roaring beetle. I hath almost lost all my creative flair; I felt tormented and neglected and nearly feeble. Ah, but a story like this is not such a fable; So at that time I did shun sadness and seek a warm ending; But indeed, to escape fate the poor were perhaps not able; And the farmer’s son shall never be a king. And ‘twas the nobles’ right to be idyllic; To be deemed far then fairly righteous. My charms were trivial, and so was then my wit; My prayers were too parted and despaired; no matter how rigorous. I kept my work along the countryside; I toiled all night and behind fierce daylight. I hoped Maud would see me back one day; But what I found was to my dismay! Ah, Maud, for she was now engaged; To that pathetic creature the cursed morn brought about; And parties arranged, voices too raised; The union was now what people had in thought. Onto my shoulders my head kept sinking; I killed myself nearly, for my irksome defeat in this rivalry; A rivalry that failed to transgress vital destiny; A rivalry I could not even bear to think. But again, this love had always been everything; And thus Maud’s union would equal my death; One night I crept out of my bed; I had in hand a keychain and a net. The soldier was infused by sound sleep; And into Maud’s grand chamber I crept; Everything was pink and quite neatly kept; But woke I her not--as I heard her breast breath slowly. She was tremendous still--in beauty; Maud in her splendour; so young and free. Ah, she was free but not free, I fathomed; I looked at her over and over again. I looked at her violet bed and comfort net; Ah, my Maud too virgin and temptingly red. She was too abundant in her young and chaste soul; Ah, I could not imagine how she would soon be one else’s. Long did I stand; ‘till morning streamed back again; Still I remained unmoved; I stared at my darling in vain. I jumped startled as the door opened; And showed me the horror of the Queen! ‘Come, ye’ fool’, she voicelessly instructed; Her face emotionless as these words emanated; ‘And embrace thy very fate’, to the handcuffs me she directed; ‘For daring look into my dame’s immaculately flawless chamber’. She pointed thereof--a black gun at my chest; It would soon burst out and tear my vest; And even fly me straight to death; So drifted I, without further haste nor breath. Those poor soldiers imprisoned me there; A cellar room at the top of filthy stairs; I stayed awake only for grief and tears; And most of the time I laid about sleepless and stared. I grew skinless as my bones squinted; And laughed at me with their sordid might; Flies were about me, bending onto my rotten pies; And slices of meat left out by sniggering guards. I hit my head on witnessing Maud’s cold marriage; ‘Twas on a Saturday on the castle’s rain-wetted field. I heaved myself onto the windowsill and saw; How the couples were blessed and sent thereby back. I could not see Maud’s face and fleshy cheeks; But didst I feel her discarded tears; Marred and defiled her lovely fits; Though just those innate, and not out there. I struck the lifeless paint with my bare palms; Now the walls were tainted; they smelled like my blood. Time passed and desire for Maud was never killed; I’th missed her every day, since then, and perhaps always will. But my love for Maud was never probable; I was decent, honest, but indeed not preferable; I was not even preferable by fate, as thou might see; Fate who is neither truthful; nor frankly urges us to lie. I often laid hopeless by the moonbeam; Until night came and eyesight grew more and more vulnerable. I waited ‘till it was dark and left to day no more gleam; Then took my journal of Maud’s jests and read her affable poems. I turned around--and would disgrace my bed still; I was plain starved but had no desire to be properly fed; Of a dream of death I grew instantly pertinacious; And of my future tomb I grew fonder--and yet rapidly curious. Ah, but my sweet Maud, Maud, Maud, and Maud; And deliriously she somehow became pregnant; But remorse said she kept the souls of two; And fatefully could not make them both perfect! I indeed plain prayed for Maud’s survival; I cared not whose sons they might be; Ah, but the twins were still sinning babies--as I comprehended, For they were formed not from cells of mine! Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, And during those last days she was cautiously ill; And a drive of cholera had again grown widespread; But she was not maddened; by it she was not marred. She was sickened by temper still; And the prince found dead, she grew more terrifyingly ill; She had a pure heart, so she flourished not over the beast’s death; Nonetheless, he remained the father of yon sickly offspring. Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, I was duly growing perfectly anxious; She was to give birth--ah, to those little ignoramuses; And within a little chord in one or days of two--she would do so. But without a father to care for her notorious sons; And even I was locked away, and could not do so; I was terrified, I was horribly undignified; To learn this stern reality we were so sullenly faced with! Ah, not now! I could not too believe my ears! Maud and her children were dead--they’d been stillborn; Before they left Maud alone to receive her fate; Her locksmith would not come; he had another due in a nameless town. By the time he arrived my darling had gone; Perhaps she was now shimmering in heaven; Enchanting her children with her enormous spells; Narrating stories no plain human could ever tell. Even in heaven my love would perhaps be famous; Her tenderness would make other angels jealous; And angered by envy, they would gather and complain to God; How an earthly soul could be more vivacious than their heavenly were. Ah, but where is Maud, Maud, Maud; Maud and her chain of songs that were never to be broken; Maud and her familiarity with gardens and blue lilies; Maud and her immaculate pets of birds that still sweetly sing. Ah, but where is my darling, my darling, my darling; My eternal ocean, my hustling flowerbed, my immortal; My poem, my enchanting lyric, my wedding ring; My novelty, my merited charm, my eternal. And now she was longing for her grave, as I’d been told; For I’d been told by the dimmed torches and fuss and mirthless air outside; By the endless wandering and the prince’s wails and wordless screams. Ah, my Maud had now migrated from her life--but attained her freedom! And he was thus unworthy of being in her heaven; Her heaven where there would be me, her true love; And thus he would be glad to greet his fires of hell; He would marry an evil angel there--and make himself again full. But I’d be with Maud, Maud, Maud and Maud; I’d be again with my gem, indefatigable little darling; Whose voice was unsure, whose poems were never known; But ‘twas enough that they’d been known to me, her secret--ye’ dearest lover. So took I, that spinning penchant and a circle of strings; The edges I matched to the chains on my ceilings. I braced myself for my very own fiery death; But again, I’d be with Maud and death would no more, aye, be sad. Thus the above poem was done by my spirit; But with the same token and awe of genuineness and wit; I feel tired--I shall close my eyes, and thus enjoy my heaven now; For my wife and starlings are all waiting for me to-morrow. It is now nighttime in heaven; And there is indeed, no place on earth lovelier; I gaze into my wife with a loving madness; Her cheeks sweeter still, than any proudest swiftness. I shall take my vow of marriage tomorrow; My proud wife sitting in yon angelic chair by my side. I shall cradle, then, those white little nuptial fairies; They are Maud’s children’s, but lithe and gracious and bow to me in chaste mercies. Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is but all mine now; I am still surprised now, as sitting by this heaven riverside. One even grander than the one I’d had beside the lake; Which I often farmed when I had needs to bake. Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, she is a ghost but as ever lively; We are both dead but she boldly remaineth lovely; I know she is worthier than serene jewels or mundane affairs; And still she is worthier all the same, than any other terrific palace--or heir. Ah, Maud, Maud, Maud, and this war is but all over now; Thus let us dream dead of the exciting tomorrow. We shall see life and our children grow; We shall witness delight--and miracles none ever knows.
Posted on: Sat, 23 Nov 2013 07:51:05 +0000