The Lovers’ Chronicle 16 October – nothin’ – birth of Oscar Wilde – art by Lucas Cranach the Elder & Primo Conti

Dear Zazie,  Here is today’s Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag dedicated to his muse.  How does your heart break?  In roses and rue?  In roses and thorns?  In near rhymes and hard times. Do you have nothin’ to lose?  Rhett

The Lovers’ Chronicle

Dear Muse,

nothin’ dreamin’…
-The scene:  Interior of Wilde’s Lounge at L’Hôtel on Rue Des Beaux-Arts, Left Bank in Paris, it is dimly lit, opulent, they are sitting at a small round glass table in red plush velvet chairs, he is drinking a Fig Fizz (Cognac infused with Fig, Prickly pear puree, Champagne) and the luscious redhead is drinking “The Usual” by Tilda Swinton (Champagne, Lime, Violet liquor)-
cheers my love
Cheers my darling, she says
kudos to the Dream Goddess she nailed this one
Absolutely, did she have a motive for bringing us here
of course, she has brought us to where Wilde lived and died
on his birthday, when it was known as the Hôtel d'Alsace,
apparently it was run-down at the time, but Wilde remarked;
’’I am dying beyond my means".
Funny and sad at the same time, she says
yes, and on one of his last walks outside he said;
"My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel
to the death. One of us has got to go".
That explains why She brought us here,
She knows you lean to darkness
i think she has another surprise for us,
they feature live music here
and if She picks up on the song that was playin’
in my head when i fell asleep, it will be wonderfully sad,
yep, look who just came in with a guitar
Wow, Chris Cornell, always a bittersweet moment
wait till you hear what he sings;
‘’It’s been seven hours and fifteen days
Since you took your love away’’
Damn that is fabulous and heart breaking
and look, Sinéad just came in to sing with him
We have reached peak beauty and sorrow;
‘’Cause nothing compares
Nothing compares to you’’
but i think the doctor was right
we better keep on havin’ fun
cause nothin’ compares to us

© copyright 2024 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

one song clearly stands out;
“Ya gotta have sumpthin’
if ya wanna be with me”
yes, very nice, there is
a Kiss song, but thought
you were good without it
“You thought well”
i have been writin’ about
how i had nothin’
till i created this place
and started writin’ everyday
“And then shared it with me”
now we got sumpthin’

© copyright 2023 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

too often, leapin’ without a net and then, perhaps worse, leapin’ with the net but not trustin’ it, would have saved some heartache; lived to write about it, that ain’t all bad, learned the most important lesson; you can bench press yourself out of some situations, but you can write your way out of anything; you gotta have sumpthin’, even better two sumpthin’s as i do; this and you

© copyright 2022.2023 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

as we grow together
in ways we now know
can happen
and yet did not expect
each moment, an awakenin’

we can feel the possibilities
openin’ before us, definin’
what we will become

nothin’ compares to this

a rhythmical
accompaniment
to what we have
of time and beauty

© copyright 2021 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

Pale Love, Pale Rider

had to have sumpthin’
voilà, here we are

never worth a damn
at creatin’ anything
with someone
only when i fully committed
to this did i find
what i could count on

do not forget this;
whatever comes
this will be here
take a chance
reach for what may
you got nothin’ to lose

© copyright 2020.2023 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

could we,
with the long-buried past,
were it worth the effort

we never did learn,
were we apart too long

could what was denied
call back, could we,
all over again,
were it worth
the cost

remember
your voice had a quaver
in it, and your eyes, lit
when we stopped

© copyright 2019 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

you know
when i write
of nothin’,
of as is
and solitude
and this vision

there can only be that
or with you
there is not another
other way to be

“I have been thinking
about feelings:
A musician
puts their feelings
to music. A poet
puts their to verse.
A singer in their voice
and an artist in their strokes.
But I am not any of these.
So I put mine in silence,
in my thoughts. Can you hear?
Feel my heartbeat from many
miles away. Smell my softness.
Taste my skin. Touch my lips.
See my movements. Dance
in the stillness. Holding on
with arms wide open…”

doubt the blue in the sky
but never doubt,
that i see and feel

with you, with me
with the way it shall be

© copyright 2018 mac tag/cowboy coleridge all rights reserved

for the pretty woman at the airport in Grand Island

of you, i knew
of once ago,
i miss
but
the pull
of solitude
harder to resist

she was pretty
blonde hair, blue eyes
great hands and smile
she asked where i was from,
and when told, said;
I thought I should know you

but what to do with that
nothin’ ventured, nothin’ gained
but nothin’ suits right now
is it thus so,
how a poet’s heart breaks

© copyright 2017 mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

No offense,
But I only have time
For that which will
Contribute to my survival

A survival predicated
Upon creativity
Whether that be
Financial models,
Verse, prose,
Paintin’, sketchin’,
Or photography

© copyright 2016 Mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

like the wind she broke
when she saw the sage

he let her have
a couple of miles
of free runnin’
on the open trail,
then coaxed her in

his thoughts turned
to how they used
to ride together

he gazed out
on the purple lines
of the pass
and shut his eyes

© copyright 2015 Mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

‘’I curse myself night and day for my folly in allowing him to dominate my life.’’
Oscar Wilde

If I may Oscar;
Replace him with her or it,
My life’s folly

Frosty mornin’
The Pleiades
fall into place
Orion starts
his rise. Swift fall
of night. Begin
another day
still without you

© copyright 2014 Mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

Lookin’ into
Each other’s eyes
A moment that
Lengthened, lingered
Growin’ into
Something they both
Needed. He knew
it. She knew it.

End of a long
Hard week. Plenty
Work, not enough
Sleep. And missin’
What I cannot
Have. Pain wellin’
Up inside. Just
One way to make
It go away

© copyright 2013 Mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

A neighbor, our babysitter’s dad
She who gave birth knew,
But never did anything about it
What do you do with that
Not lookin’ for sympathy,
Damn sure not any pity
Never told anyone
But of course,
Holdin’ nothin’ back from you

© copyright 2012 Mac tag/cowboy Coleridge all rights reserved

Today is the deathday of Lucas Cranach the Elder (Lucas Maler; Kronach, Holy Roman Empire, now Germany: c. 1472 – 16 October 1553 Weimar, Holy Roman Empire, now Germany); Renaissance painter and printmaker in woodcut and engraving. He was court painter to the Electors of Saxony for most of his career, and is known for his portraits, both of German princes and those of the leaders of the Protestant Reformation, whose cause he embraced with enthusiasm. He was a close friend of Martin Luther, and eleven portraits of that reformer by him survive. Cranach also painted religious subjects, first in the Catholic tradition, and later trying to find new ways of conveying Lutheran religious concerns in art. He continued throughout his career to paint nude subjects drawn from mythology and religion.

Cranach had a large workshop and many of his works exist in different versions; his son Lucas Cranach the Younger and others continued to create versions of his father’s works for decades after his death. He has been considered the most successful German artist of his time.

Cranach married Barbara Brengbier, the daughter of a burgher of Gotha and also born there; she died at Wittenberg on 26 December 1540. Cranach later owned a house at Gotha, but most likely he got to know Barbara near Wittenberg, where her family also owned a house, which later also belonged to Cranach.

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Oscar Wilde

Today is the birthday of Oscar Wilde (Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Wills Wilde; Dublin; 16 October 1854 – 30 November 1900 Paris); playwright, novelist, essayist, and poet.  After writing in different forms throughout the 1880s, he became one of London’s most popular playwrights in the early 1890s.  He is remembered for his epigrams, his novel The Picture of Dorian Gray, his plays, as well as the circumstances of his imprisonment and early death.

As a spokesman for aestheticism, he tried his hand at various literary activities: he published a book of poems, lectured in the United States and Canada on the new “English Renaissance in Art”, and then returned to London where he worked as a journalist.  Known for his biting wit, flamboyant dress and stimulating conversation, Wilde became one of the best-known personalities of his day.

At the turn of the 1890s, he refined his ideas about the supremacy of art in a series of dialogues and essays, and incorporated themes of decadence, duplicity, and beauty into his only novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray (1890).  He wrote Salome (1891) in French in Paris but it was refused a licence for England due to the absolute prohibition of Biblical subjects on the English stage.  Unperturbed, Wilde produced four society comedies in the early 1890s, which made him one of the most successful playwrights of late Victorian London.

At the height of his fame and success, while his masterpiece, The Importance of Being Earnest (1895), was still on stage in London, Wilde had the Marquess of Queensberry prosecuted for libel.  The Marquess was the father of Wilde’s lover, Lord Alfred Douglas.  The charge carried a penalty of up to two years in prison.  The trial unearthed evidence that caused Wilde to drop his charges and led to his own arrest and trial for gross indecency with men.  After two more trials he was convicted and imprisoned for two years’ hard labour.

In 1897, in prison, he wrote De Profundis, which was published in 1905, a long letter which discusses his spiritual journey through his trials, forming a dark counterpoint to his earlier philosophy of pleasure.  Upon his release he left immediately for France, never to return to Ireland or Britain.  There he wrote his last work, The Ballad of Reading Gaol (1898), a long poem commemorating the harsh rhythms of prison life.  He died destitute at the age of 46.

In honour of his birthday, here is his poem “Roses and Rue”, the Poem of the Day.

Roses and Rue

Could we dig up this long-buried treasure,
Were it worth the pleasure,
We never could learn love’s song,
We are parted too long

Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead,
Could we live it all over again,
Were it worth the pain!

I remember we used to meet
By an ivied seat,
And you warbled each pretty word
With the air of a bird;

And your voice had a quaver in it,
Just like a linnet,
And shook, as the blackbird’s throat
With its last big note;

And your eyes, they were green and grey
Like an April day,
But lit into amethyst
When I stooped and kissed;

And your mouth, it would never smile
For a long, long while,
Then it rippled all over with laughter
Five minutes after.

You were always afraid of a shower,
Just like a flower:
I remember you started and ran
When the rain began.

I remember I never could catch you,
For no one could match you,
You had wonderful, luminous, fleet,
Little wings to your feet.

I remember your hair – did I tie it?
For it always ran riot –
Like a tangled sunbeam of gold:
These things are old.

I remember so well the room,
And the lilac bloom
That beat at the dripping pane
In the warm June rain;

And the colour of your gown,
It was amber-brown,
And two yellow satin bows
From the shoulders rose.

And the handkerchief of French lace
Which you held to your face-
Had a small tear left a stain?
Or was it the rain?

On your hand as it waved adieu
There were veins of blue;
In your voice as it said good-bye
Was a petulant cry,

“You have only wasted your life.”
(Ah, that was the knife!)
When I rushed through the garden gate
It was all too late.

Could we live it over again,
Were it worth the pain,
Could the passionate past that is fled
Call back its dead!

Well, if my heart must break,
Dear love, for your sake,
It will break in music, I know,
Poets’ hearts break so.

But strange that I was not told
That the brain can hold
In a tiny ivory cell
God’s heaven and hell.

The Song of the Day is “Every Rose has it’s Thorn” by Poison. we do not own the rights to this song.

For that is how a poet’s heart breaks.  In rhythm and rhyme and much ado, in roses and rue.  In near rhymes and hard times.  In sonnets and storms, in roses and thorns.

And today is the birthday of Primo Conti (Florence, Italy 16 October 1900 – 12 November 1988 Fiesole, Florence); futurist artist. He explored Mannerism, Exoticism, Pittura Metafisica, and great historical and religious painting, covering a vast area that can be compared with his keen interest in the theatrical and literary world, which led him to found the Viareggio Prize in 1929. 

From 1948 to 1963 he followed the rules of the Order of the Franciscans, though he still continued to paint. Many of his works are housed in the Museo Primo Conti (Primo Conti Foundation Museum) in the Villa le Coste at Fiesole.

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Mac Tag

thanks for stoppin’ by y’all

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