The Lovers’ Chronicle 23 July – each time – art by P. S. Krøyer

Dear Zazie, Here is Mac Tag‘s Lovers’ Chronicle to his muse. Follow us on twitter @cowboycoleridge. Rhett

The Lovers’ Chronicle

Dear Muse,

what if there was a song
“One that sounds like a jazz standard”
right somethin’ Tony would sing
“Oh yes, two days after his death”
ok, it would have to be romantic
“Of course”
with a slow tempo and only
piano accompaniment
“Sounds good”
maybe…
each time i think of you
my thoughts flow easily
and i hurry to find
to write for you anew
these words so carefully
chosen in faith in kind

the scene: a man, no longer young but still of some use, sits on a fifth floor apartment patio at dawn; on a small wooden table next to him – a cortado, a cigar ashtray and a Macanudo figurado; he is writing in a notebook; just as the sun crests he looks up; he should have a look on his face of wonder as in each time he thinks of her, or sees the sunrise, or writes a worthy line

nice situation
indulgin’ my dreams here
and livin’ them with you

you bendin’ over me
and my words begin to move
you and i doin’ anything
and the reasons keep rollin’

we understand now
we know
we have begun
in round about ways
and directly,
we can tell you
we believe
each time

Pale Love, Pale Rider

how did it start
i try to remember
i cannot

a rhythm to it all
even the hardest part
has a find-able rhythm
which is why, i suppose,
i keep comin’ back

each time a little farther
(why should it matter)
each time a little harder
(why should it matter)
until that is how i like it

for Pamela

whoa, have not
felt this way
in a long time…

nervous, scared
(and i ain’t
scared of nothin’)

i told want
and need
to go to hell
but here they are

can i admit
what i have tried
to ignore

to want
and yet
to not

allow the crescendo
or not

as if
it could be stopped

nice state of affairs
indulgin’ my dreams here

as if you bendin’ over me
and my blood begins to move

as if you and i doin’ anything
we used to do, or could do

do you understand now
i know i have only said it
in round about ways
but i can tell you
i believe it

meanwhile, everything
slips away, it all reels
as i try to rise up
i touch my chest
the hurt
how did it start
i try to remember
i cannot

a rhythm to it all
even the hardest part
has a find-able rhythm
which is why, i suppose,
i keep comin’ back

regret, like pity,
changes nothin’
the instinct to panic
slackens each time
helps if you avoid
lookin’ in the rearview

each time a little farther
(why should it matter)
each time a little harder
(why should it matter)
until that is how i like it

Apparition appears; spirit subdues
An impartial light admired and yet feared,
Whose attraction is merciless, and yearns

To pull back, to the original place
Look at the light; but to look does imply
No less a somber moiety of shade

For myself, deep down within, wonderin’
At the quick, the poem’s holy fount, between
The void and this pure power, I beseech

Time for the kick, I hear “Non, je ne regrette rien”!

Today is the birthday of P. S. Krøyer (Peder Severin Krøyer; Stavanger, Norway 23 July 1851 – 21 November 1909 Skagen, Denmark); painter. In my opinion, one of the best known, beloved, and the most colorful of the Skagen Painters, a community of Danish and Nordic artists who lived, gathered or worked in Skagen, Denmark, especially during the final decades of the 19th century. Krøyer was the unofficial leader of the group.

Self portrait, 1897

On a trip to Paris in 1888 he ran into Marie Martha Mathilde Triepcke, whom he had known in Copenhagen. They fell in love and, after a whirlwind romance, married on 23 July 1889 at her parents’ home in Germany. Marie Krøyer, who was also a painter, became associated with the Skagen community, and after their marriage was often featured in Krøyer’s paintings. They were divorced in 1905 following a prolonged separation.

Gallery

Krøyer celebrated his 50th birthday on July 23, 1901 in Bjørnesjerne Bjørnson’s home at Aulestad. Among those present that summer was the youngest Bjørnson daughter Dagny, then married to the German publisher Albert Langen