“In youth I wrote because my mind was full,

and now because I feel it growing dull.”

Byron

Ode to Byron

The godlessness was an impious cant

This sprang from familial bish

His sobriety ingrained in youth, polished

His acumen was of high spirit for fertility

The cult was rediscovered:

O, Byron! Thou art tarnished

Ah! The lava awaiting eruption

He inherited bitterness, home desolation

His wretched majesty not unchaste

Nor did the musicality of the shepherd

The crush of the avalanche

The torrent, the mountain, the glacier

The forest, the cloud, didn’t lighten the weight

His heart bore the power, the glory

He suffered the most, was above reproaches

Augusta was his oasis in times of turmoil

His mother stained the whole firmament

Failed to calm the gale, rather, blew it

Into a hurricane; he would become a

Complete misanthrope! O frailty!

Byron the mist, suffered the sting

Gleaned Byron, Nietzsche’s free spirit

An archetype of decorum, equipoised and paradox

His own voyeur lived not in himself

A volcano intended to purge the world

Drank the embers of passion, wilful gusto

Demolished the prudish era in which he lived

Shelley’s sensitive plant, rooted in reality

Mary Duff entered his blurred life

A whirligig of turmoil, an infantile love

Paralyzed posterity, peed the Keatsean poetry!

He was neither good nor bad, ambivalent

That attracted the weaker sex[?]

Mal Wednesday 19 April 2017 the lonely voice

©Basudev Paul

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