Kelli's back!

Since Kelli is a crime fiction author, she added her favorite "murder poem".     --MKB

For crime fiction fans, the story of the spurned or unfaithful lover as a plot device is our bread and butter … and one of the best depictions of a royally psychotic murderer I’ve ever read is My Last Duchess by Robert Browning.

FERRARA

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,

Looking as if she were alive. I call

That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands

Worked busily a day, and there she stands.

Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said

“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read

Strangers like you that pictured countenance,

The depth and passion of its earnest glance,

But to myself they turned (since none puts by

The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)

And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,

How such a glance came there; so, not the first

Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not

Her husband’s presence only, called that spot

Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek; perhaps

Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps

Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint

Must never hope to reproduce the faint

Half-flush that dies along her throat.” Such stuff

Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough

For calling up that spot of joy. She had

A heart—how shall I say?— too soon made glad,

Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er

She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.

Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men—good! but thanked

Somehow—I know not how—as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—which I have not—to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, “Just this

Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

Or there exceed the mark”—and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse—

E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh, sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;

Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands

As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet

The company below, then. I repeat,

The Count your master’s known munificence

Is ample warrant that no just pretense

Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;

Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed

At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go

Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,

Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

Brr. Gives me chills. Speaking of which, there is one poem—I dare not reproduce it—that I’ve always felt both defines insanity and evokes it in the reader. The rhythm, the alliteration, the repetition, the onomatopoeia is, I’m convinced, madness-inducing. If you’re willing to risk it, read (just once) Poe’s The Bells.

Finally, some observations. Unsurprisingly, my preferences for some poets and their work have changed as I’ve grown older. While Fern Hill by Dylan Thomas is an indelibly beautiful indulgence in childhood nostalgia, it now irritates rather than elucidates. Not so Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night,  which, like similar Shakespearean sonnets, remains a stalwart favorite.  Likewise, I enjoyed Spring and Fall (Gerard Manley Hopkins) when I was younger; now I see it as pretty but pompous proselytizing.

In addition to the poetry I’ve mentioned above, one stands out every New Year, composed by my favorite British writer and poet, Thomas Hardy. I’ll leave you with this, which he wrote on the turning of the twentieth century. 

Here’s wishing you all joy in reading—and writing—our oldest form of creative communication!

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate

When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter's dregs made desolate

The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

Had sought their household fires.

The land's sharp features seemed to be

The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

The wind his death-lament. 

The ancient pulse of germ and birth                                                                                          Was shrunken hard and dry,                                                                                                         And every spirit upon earth                                                                                                     Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew 

And I was unaware.