Melancholy

Recently I have been reading alot of John Cage, and I have found the way he writes through different texts brilliant. By using his methods I am able to manipulate the words and lines of my favourite poets into something even more emotive, altering their meanings through editing. I change the rhythm and rhyme scheme. Experimenting. Tell me what you think?


Ode on Melancholy By Keats

No, no! … not to Lethe, neither …….
……………………for its poisonous wine;
…..suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By night……….………………………….
…………………………………………….
Nor …………………… death…………..
Your mournful …………………………
……………….. in your sorrow's mysteries;
…………………………come too drowsily,
And drown the……….anguish of the soul

.……………….the melancholy……shall fall
Sudden ……………. like a weeping cloud,
………………………………………………..........
And hides ………………………………….......
…………….thy sorrow……a morning rose,
……………………………………………….
………………………………………….......
.….if thy mistress some.……anger shows,
Emprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed.…………..upon her peerless eyes

.…………Beauty -- Beauty that must die;
……………whose hand is ever at his lips
………………….. aching Pleasure…….
Turning to poison …………………………
…….in the very temple of delight
Veiled Melancholy has her ………………
……………. none save……………………….
Can burst ………………………………………
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.

Lotus

Common Expression by Frances Driscoll

The man above me.... saying something…..…
…………….over and over the same
……What. ………you saying, I am
saying.….he is still saying …………
………using the sound……to take him
……………………… someplace inside me
…………..I feel nothing ………….
cheap.……………………………………..
……………..the worst. ……………….
….waiting for it please to stop. Escape……
…………………….. nothing but one
…………………….. But I don't know
………... I don't know that
until morning …….I remember when
I heard that…………………….
over and over ………. a man's mouth
like that…….like that.
……………… sounds I can not place
keep coming out of me.
I remember not knowing what would happen
when he stopped. Life
….death was all I thought was
at stake. …………imagine this.


Sunday Morning By Anita B

It could be dark, it could be light.
A room of a silent noise
compresses my brain into screams.
Silence forced; my eyes stolen.
The emptiness of this place,
I cannot hear. Desperate for my body,
but it does not move.
I cannot feel.

Am I dead? Panic fills me.
A cold trickle pressing,
gripping at my heart.
A taste on my tongue;
metal and bubblegum,
smoke and sweat,
salt in the back of my throat.
What is that taste?
Life seeping back into my heavy limbs,
cramps, pins and needles.

A drum beating in my head,
I groan, muffled and distant.
The pain is spreading,
rubbing my breasts,
scraping at my nerves.
Whirling round and round.

Seconds, minutes, hours.
I smell nausea on the pillow beside me.
The spinning has stopped.
I sit up slowly, and shiver,
the chill of the room hits my skin.
My hands spring to my breasts,
fingers send streams of fire through soft tissue.
I am sick, I am sore, I am naked.
Where am I now?
How did I get here?
I am in a bedroom, my room?
Last night’s clothes are on the floor,
empty water glasses stand on the desk.
There is blood, not much,
spots of red glare at me amidst the whiteness.
I put my hand between my thighs,
I feel the wet soreness there,
a tear slides underneath my lashes.
I am alone.

Nareepol Tree

Inspired by La Belle Dame Sans Merci by Keats

Softly, Softly, Springs brisk morning air,
Creeps up upon you, with a sky so fair,
The Nobleman rode along the frosty path,
With his sword sheathed, alone at last,
Into the forest, amongst the melting snow,
This brave and honourable man did go.

Riding through the peaceful forest, all that could be heard was white stallion’s hooves, pressing on the crisp, frosty dirt trail. Coming across a trickling stream, he dismounted and led his steed to drink from the crystal clear water, quietly bubbling over the smooth pebbles.
A stunning willow tree in full blossom lay across the water, her branches dripping into the stream like a maiden washing her hair. The nobleman lifted his dark black cape and waded across, his leather boots effortlessly parting the water. He paused, breathing deeply, appreciating the scented blossom that permeated the crisp, fresh air. He sighed and wondered, ‘why did he have to leave this place?’

As he continued towards the willow, he noticed that the shape of the trunk was particular unusual. Someone had carved the figure of a beautiful young woman into the tree. She had an intricately delicate face with a beautifully shaped nose and lips, her hair frozen in wood, spread either side, her ample breast, swept along her cute stomach and perfectly smooth legs. ‘If only you were real, if only I could hold you’, the man thought, ‘You are beautiful enough to die for.’

‘I see a lily on thy brow

With anguish moist and fever dew,

And on thy cheek a fading rose’

He reached out and stroked her smooth cheek, as he did so he noticed that she was changing colour. Her cheeks flushed, the colour of life flowing back into her chest and limbs. Her eyes opened. They were a brilliant blue and as clear as the morning sky, her hair swept forward as black as the night, she was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

‘Full beautiful, a faery's child:

Her hair was long, her foot was light,

And her eyes were wild.’

She stood naked before him and wrapping her arms around him. Before he could speak she pressed her lips into his. Bliss, he thought, don’t question perfection. She began to undress him and before he knew it, they were locked in a lovers embrace.

‘She looked at me as she did love,

And made sweet moan.’

She spun him around, pushing him against the tree; she kissed him harder, smiling. He suddenly felt so tired, his legs felt so heavy.

‘I saw pale kings, and princes too,

Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;

Who cried--"La belle Dame sans Merci

Hath thee in thrall!"’

She broke away, and looking down, he realised that his legs were turning brown. He tried to move, but was stuck, he screamed, but made no sound.

He watched as the girl dressed in his clothes and went back across the stream to his horse, as she mounted, the colour black crept across his eyes, until he was completely enveloped in darkness.

‘And that is why I sojourn here,

Alone and palely loitering,

Though the sedge is withered from the lake,

And no birds sing.’

Softly, softly, spring’s brisk morning air,
Can lead you to women that are less than fair,
Even a man of noble blood can succumb,
And be left naked, cold and dumb,
If you do not question bliss,
Then you may well end up like this.