Quid

YOUR HONOUR,

Floreat Magdalena, as the CHARTER a mari usque ad mare authorizes the attempt of every new species of poetry, it is of the charter, quidlibet audendi, the birthright of every poet beforehand, a hereditary obligation to patronize the Muses, with an unaffected Love, to promote the Love of Nature and the interests of Humanity. In Envy, the Obvious Bounds that still divide foul Flattery from fair Gratitude, would you esteem a Tax on the name of the Countess of Hertford, who can by no means dispense with so essential a privilege, of a Scenery of Nature more adapted to the genius and disposition of Poetry?

The effort of the Restoration of The English Canon to primae facia editions, even respecting the fidei defensor, beati pacifici, and parva sub ingenti, requires a hardihood that is preliminary in velut arbor aevo, though not with respect to any historical preferment among either the Greeks or the Romans, but of the derived Eng. obdura-cy from the obsolete. L. obduratus of the Jews themselves; that while there were available many other excellent treatises in the time of the Jewish Rebellion against Rome in AD 66 and 70, translated for the Gentiles, that were written by the Jews, in the tradition of their constitution and sacred books, that expressed the Divine nature and its operations, in an effort for the promotion of virtue among the people, yet the Jews prohibited the poet’s histories of their gods; for, they had been accused of subterfuge during the war, and of outright lies, spread among the people, that perverted the status of their own actions and their cause; and being there a great regret among the Jews, and widespread interest for a lasting peace with the Romans after the war, was never recorded in the Greek or Roman language, any treatise coming from the poets, though an absorbent interest among the Greeks had emerged, and finally the Romans, for a record of any treatise, if not of the poets’ gods, the actions of their people, or of their laws, at least a rendering of what does indeed belong to their own. In my own chair, in my present study, and remembering the discipline of humatus, I have the interest of Oxford poetry and its patrons at heart, and contribute these four poems.

These four poems are an attempt at ‘traversal poetry’, for transference between two or more politici in time and space, would thereby not exclude a negotiation in our words of how to ought and how to owe. Respecting Oxford Poetry, XV.ii, and the recent book review of Ms. Balmer’s work entitled, Translating Classical Verse, Creating Contemporary Poetry. Oxford University Press, the present author was impressed by - with regards to Cicero’s De Optimo: interpres, adnumerare, and appendere - the dignity of the translator, who negotiates scholastics and creativity, and a wringing out, or exprimere, according to our human search for a humane humanity in the art of contemporary poetry. In passing our lives as writers, let us acknowledge that because the past is humatus - interred, or laid in the ground - that the one from the past who is interred is one whom we ought to know, and whom we owe an itinerary, by that we keep his or her memory, of our passage through the time and space, that we traverse in absence; for, at the bounding-line of a traversal poetry between one poet’s life and the departed life of any former author, there remains, in classical times, the toll we pay to acquire, and in the modern, one that we account before our Judge, and for each poem or artifact, one is thereby itinerant of an accurate traversal of a former and present time, in a living record.

FROM BRAD RAMSEY (POSTM0DERNIST AUTHOR)

P.S.

I never have a rename of any blog, “Poésie Archéologie." 

ibid Brad Ramsey

The Relic Soldier Tower

see, The Queen’s Message 2014

Sole relic of the pile that burned 

E. H. W. Meyerstein, 1913.

Turn up the heat; the soldiers sang,

Stille Nacht, from their Soldier Tower,

Have ushered in a quiet hour,

Instead of guns, this carol rang.

These old leaves, wither; one by one.

And so, my floorboard heater toils;

My kettle; and, my saucepan boils;

I warm myself, beside these coils.

Clear was the night when I began,

But only brought in stormy skies,

I do not think the cream shall rise,

Not much to offer of my pan.

The clock upon the stovetop chimes:

The Message. Her Majesty read,

All those from World War I are dead,

And these are more forgiving times.

Turn up the heat; how cold the day;

The frost has seemed to crack the pane;

But now I hear they call for rain,

In a weathercock’s round way.

Throw down the volume; write no more;

The heat is off; it’s time for bed;

The meaning of a relic read,

Egyptian sand upon the floor. 

Or,

Online Oxford Poetry, quite:

It is ‘the brink,’ that must be learned,

Sole relic from a pile that burned,

As the world prepares to fight.

- Brad Ramsey (Postmodernist Author)

As Goths are Goths, O! Tamara, Our Queen.

And now at last, laden with honour’s spoils,

Returns the good Andronicus to Rome

William Shakespeare I.i, c. 1590-1593.

-William Shakespeare, Titus Andronicus (Ii.)

Speak, gentle love! What proud, ungentle men,

Have here with some old hooks, made your closet bare 

Of its ornaments? Those prized ornaments

Of enfolding sleeves, I have sought to keep in,

Which might then gain so great a happiness,

As all our love! 

Alas, a vulgar Goth,

Likewise a bumbling Roman, full of wind,

Does perish with the issue of your lips -

Perishing, moreover, in that Jewel breath.

But sure, Bassianus does intrigue you?

And, lest you oughtst deny him, feel my tongue...

Ah, now you turn away your face for shame,

And, notwithstanding, all this Roman blood -

Like once, that Eden, with four issuing spouts -

Yet, do your cheeks grow red? As my heart -

Blazing - as the sun - setting in a cloud.

Shall we speak of this? Shall we say ‘tis so?

Oh, I have slayed his heart, and slayed the beast,

That we might rail at hers, to ease our plight,

Our love revealed, that cheer not topped,

That turns the heart to gladness, where it is.

Fair Lavinia, you haven’t lost your tongue,

Nor, in a tedious conquest, lost your limbs;

But, loveliest, that true is due of thee:

A great Bassianus, hath thou now met,

And he has cut Tamara off,

Who shall never stop the brave! Andronici,

O! If Aaron left you amputee,

To play thy inward notes upon the lute,

While, your avenging songs could strangle him,

I shouldn’t doubt monarchy for my life.

Or, had he heard the quiet evensong,

That speechless remittance does make,

I’d be bound to Christendom, and allege,

As patriots, who sing Jerusalem.

Come, let us go, and make your father grand,

For such a joy shall make a man delight,

As glorious war has filled great casks with mead,

What might long years of peace? Your father’s cup!

Do not let go, for I’ll along with you -

O! let this morning hear of Reverie. 

-Brad Ramsey (Postmodernist Author)

Solomon’s Generosity

This poem could be published late:

The greatest in our mother tongue,

The King James Version is the best,

A love poem that grips my chest,

My word! The Song of Solomon.

[This kind of free verse would in time endure,

For innocence would remain that pure.]

A painful love, indeed, ‘tis true,

In the burden of the love song,

But in the outset of the thing,

What but pleasure did that love bring?

‘Twas so generous all along!

[Where she and one in reign had justly lain,

Aye! The love they felt that night was not pain.]

But there goes sex at such a price,

That guards were placed beside their bed,

To kill on sight a thoughtless man,

If regicide became his plan,

In any uprising he led.

[Nor was it foremost without dowry true,

She was a virgin, therefore each man’s due.]

And sick in love would she become,

To find the culprit of the boast,

Around the city she would moan,

“Where is my husband, I atone,

Is it me that he wants the most?”

[All the women there had seen this before,

For each had found her own way through the door.]

“You’re sick in love, we know the man,

And all have husbands of our own,”

They said. “We’ll take you right to him,

For most of us don’t share this whim,

That any man shall wear the Crown.”

[And he had been given such a beating,

For the Wise King had been caught- Well, cheating.]

But do these men who fight reflect,

Is the deed always theirs alone?

Animal, these men then become,

To snatch her up and take her home,

And tell her what she must condone.

[This poem could indeed be published late,

For the King James love song is this great!]

The Burden:

This kind of free verse would in time endure,

For innocence would remain that pure,

Where she and one in reign had justly lain,

Aye! The love they felt that night was not pain,

Nor was it foremost without dowry true,

She was a virgin, therefore each man’s due,

All the women there had seen this before,

For each had found her own way through the door,

And he had been given such a beating,

For the Wise King had been caught- Well, cheating,

This poem could indeed be published late,

For the King James love song is this great!

-Brad Ramsey (Postmodernist Author)

Twelve To Dine

When I do set the cloth at suppertime,

And see the worst fare on the menu tonight,

When I behold pungency our prime,

And leprosy o'er glistened in the white,

When lofty men, I see, telling their leaves,

Which erst to dine did signify a bird,

And growing vineyards borne away in sheaves,

Thrown to the bucket and strange refreshment served,

Then of thy delight do I question make,

That thou among the death of food must go?

Since men and women do themselves forsake,

And die as quick as young appetites grow;

And naught against gluttony takes offense,

Save purge, and, keep the bodies buried, hence.

-Brad Ramsey (Postmodernist Author)

Non MMXX. Sed MMXVII?