The Lovers’ Chronicle 9 December – for you – verse by John Milton – photography by Roy DeCarava

Dear Zazie Lee, Here is the latest edition of The Lovers’ Chronicle from Mac Tag. Rhett

The Lovers’ Chronicle

Dear Muse,

we could either go with “Songbird”,
written and sung by Christine McVie;
“For you, there’ll be no more crying
For you, the sun will be shining”,
or the Stevie Nicks song;
“Has anyone ever written anything for you
In all your darkest hours
Have you ever heard me sing”
“Well you know I love “Songbird””
as i do, but Stevie’s song fits so well
as i now write everything for you

some days are easier than others, some days require a little more thinkin’, the wheels need more grease, but not today, the words are comin’ so fast they are jumblin’ on me, so, gonna rein ’em in with this; what matters most, sittin’ down each day to write this, it is of you and for you

decidedly too easy, too sentimental
on Milton’s birthday, to write about
a paradise found, but blame cannot
be directed my way as the thought
crosses, then passes, no i simply
want to write about the reason
we are gathered here today,
and every day, the verse
of you and for you

Pale Love, Pale Rider

these words for you
all i know, all i have

no longer cleft asunder,
the past recedes
those days
without you
and i see,
retrievable

i am grown young

with you,
i need not much
for this journey

here i stand
arms around you,
together, we move

as we never have before

thou that dost prefer
above all, to be with
instruct me, for thou
from the first
wast present,

what in me is dark
illumine, what is low
raise and support
that to the highth
i may assert
and justifie
the mind
is its own place,
and can make its waye
through the lack thereof

for Tamela

these words for you
are as close as i can git…

what was cleft asunder,
pale and irretrievable,
the day we parted
‘neath that Carolina sky
flashin’ with lightenin’

without you
need not much
for this journey

the search pulled
close around me
keeps me

Love_padlocks_on_the_Butchers'_Bridge_(Ljubljana)

all done with that
pointless to go there
choices were made
and they came
with necessary
sacrifices

it is what it is
and as is
is a helluva lot better
than what was

besides,

you cannot put a lock
on the Ponte Vecchio
anymore

ponte vecchio bridge over the Arno, in Florence

Cry for Love Reprise

These words I write to you
Are nearer to truth
Than anything I know…

Clouds pass and I see,
Pale and irretrievable,
And it agitates
What has been cleft asunder
Since the day you left me
On the Spanish Steps;
And I am grown old

Lost without you,
I need not much for this journey
Here I wander
Ever across the land, murmurin’ softly
Sorrow, arms around me,
Whisperin’ as I move along

As rain falls like tears,
Shaken from misery bearin’ clouds
Cry for love

And then…
Just like that
There she was
I God;
Pretty as ever

Felt so good,
brief though it was
Just eye contact
And small talk
about dark
chocolate
But it felt
so damn good

Nothin’ but a
Blink or a wink
Separatin’
The hopeful from
The hopeless; the
Holdin’ on from
The givin’ up

Hope, damn tricky
Subject. Forsake
It and it will
Abandon you
Get caught up in
It and it can
Burn you badly
Which is where I
Am burnin’ down

If you must love me, let it be written:
All the pretty horses and sweet sonnets
Will not keep the cloudy mornin’s away

Today is the birthday of John Milton (Bread Streeet, Cheapside, London 9 December 1608 – 8 November 1674 Bunhill, London); poet, polemicist, man of letters, and civil servant for the Commonwealth of England under Oliver Cromwell. He wrote at a time of religious flux and political upheaval, and is best known for his epic poem Paradise Lost (1667), written in blank verse.

Milton and his first wife Mary Powell (1625–1652) had four children. Mary on 5 May 1652 from complications following childbirth. On 12 November 1656, Milton was married to Katherine Woodcock at St Margaret’s, Westminster. She died on 3 February 1658, less than four months after giving birth. Milton married for a third time on 24 February 1663 to Elizabeth Mynshull or Minshull (1638–1728), the niece of Thomas Mynshull, a wealthy apothecary and philanthropist in Manchester. The marriage took place at St Mary Aldermary in the City of London. Despite a 31-year age gap, the marriage seemed happy, and lasted more than 12 years until Milton’s death.

Paradise Lost was first published in 1667, and consisted of ten books with over ten thousand lines of verse. A second edition followed in 1674, arranged into twelve books (in the manner of Virgil’s Aeneid) with minor revisions throughout and a note on the versification. It is considered by critics to be Milton’s major work, and it helped solidify his reputation as one of the greatest English poets of his time.

The poem concerns the Biblical story of the Fall of Man: the temptation of Adam and Eve by the fallen angel Satan and their expulsion from the Garden of Eden. Milton’s purpose, stated in Book I, is to “justify the ways of God to men”.

Verse

Paradise Lost (1667)

And chiefly Thou O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all Temples th’ upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know’st; Thou from the first
Wast present, and with mighty wings outspread
Dove-like satst brooding on the vast Abyss
And mad’st it pregnant: What in me is dark
Illumine, what is low raise and support;
That to the highth of this great Argument
I may assert th’ Eternal Providence,
And justifie the wayes of God to men.
- i.17-26
The mind is its own place, and in itself
Can make a heav’n of hell, a hell of heav’n.
- i.254-255
To reign is worth ambition though in Hell:
Better to reign in Hell, than serve in Heaven.
- i.262-263
They looking back, all th’ Eastern side beheld
Of Paradise, so late thir happie seat,
Wav’d over by that flaming Brand, the Gate
With dreadful Faces throng’d and fierie Armes:
Som natural tears they drop’d, but wip’d them soon;
The World was all before them, where to choose
Thir place of rest, and Providence thir guide:
They hand in hand with wandring steps and slow,
Through EDEN took thir solitarie way.
- x.1532-40

And today is the birthday of Roy DeCarava (Roy Rudolph DeCarava; Harlem; December 9, 1919 – October 27, 2009 New York City) artist and photographer. DeCarava received early critical acclaim for his photography, initially engaging and imaging the lives of African Americans and jazz musicians in the communities where he lived and worked. Over a career that spanned nearly six decades, DeCarava came to be known as a founder in the field of black and white fine art photography, advocating for an approach to the medium based on the core value of an individual, subjective creative sensibility, which was separate and distinct from the “social documentary” style of many predecessors.

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