Aurelia St. John
Aurelia St. John
As part of a Brit. Lit. assignment, I chose to imitate the style of a Romantic Era poet, and ended up creating Aurelia St. John. She's something of an alter ego for me. Actually, I have a number of alter egos, but I'm particularly fond of Aurelia. She ended up with her own biography, her own "periods" of writing, her own kind of philosophy, etc. To give you an idea of what I mean, let me give you the Preface from her nonexistent Collected Works and you'll see. Ahem-
Preface
No body of the complete writings of Aurelia St. John will probably ever be produced. Certainly, no scholar shall ever choose to devote his or her studies to the work of a forgotten minor poet of the 19th century, no matter how interesting her life may have been. It was difficult enough for her poetry to get published the first time around-she never gained any celebrity (or any real money) for her efforts, and it is only from having learned of her life story that I have decided to give her work this second chance.
Aurelia St. John's early life was not hard. Today, we would consider her to be one of the Bluestocking Women, although she could never truly conform to any society. Her own mother was a writer of small pamphlets and great society, the wife of a wealthy lawyer residing in Twickenham, Mr. Lloyd Arthur St. John. Mrs. St. John, formerly Angelica Wharton, had a knack for meeting and befriending persons of high literary stature. By the account of her own memoir, she may have even had a hand in starting the career of the biographer's biographer, James Boswell. Among these, she befriended Mary Wollstonecraft, who had a great influence on the young Aurelia.
It was only after much arm-twisting by Mrs. St. John that Mr. St. John connected his daughter with Dignam and Chase Publishers of London in 1799. Aurelia was then 17. Whether or not her father's money was a part of this literary venture is not known, as the records of Dignam and Chase were destroyed when the company failed in 1823, but considering Mrs. St. John's obvious influence over her husband, the suspicion that family funds went into her initial publication is likely.
Only 200 copies of Odes of Harmony were published, according to St. John's own correspondence with William Godwin. Her later work, Harmony's Other Songs, may have been put out in larger number and may even have sold somewhat better. It was a copy of that work, in surprisingly good condition, that first called my attention to the work of St. John and began my research. Eight years separate these books. The second was published under the name "Mrs. Arbuthnot" and the poet was then the mother of three children, Adele and Victoria, and Charles Lloyd Arbuthnot, who was to become a novelist under the name of "Mrs. Fanshawe."
Tragedy struck in 1820 with the death of her husband, Jonathan Patrick Arbuthnot, a partner in her father's practice, who apparently took his own life. According to a note left behind by Arbuthnot, he "could not go on" knowing his profession "led to the ruination of entire households." At the time, Arbuthnot had been engaged in legislation against some debtors who were eventually imprisoned, all of their property seized, and their children forced to work. In despair, Aurelia left her children in the care of her brother, Alexander St. John, and ran to the Continent-
Enough of that. In other words, I got carried away. She had an affair with Lord Byron. She died at the age of sixty of alcohol poisoning. She wrote tolerable poetry. What more needs to be said? I only give the backstory because some of "her" poems influenced "my" poems. Okay, I know that sounds weird. But every now and again, I try to "be Aurelia." I'm not sure exactly what it does for me, but it doesn't hurt, and, as I've often said, there are worse hobbies.
On Beauty
I.
Beauty is the cruel, dread Goddess at night,
Strewing her moonlit path with captive stags,
Mutilated Actaeons in her wake.
For one glimpse of her naked, glowing form,
These died, ripped to shreds by their own black hounds.
What rude, unknowing eye shall pas o'er her
And not be blinded like some ancient sage
His senses rent, aware of dreams alone?
Like a wary Perseus I approach her,
Daring no more than to reflect her charms
In my enchanted mirror, like a shield
Held before me, lest I be turned to stone,
Transfixed by her pale, aweful loveliness.
No approach may ever be so subtle,
So breathless, so full of loath and yearning,
So laboured with the effort of restraint.
Behold Beauty emerging from a stream
With shoulders damp and palely glit'ning,
But do not think to look upon her eyes
For that is how a mortal is destroyed.
II.
Behold how quickly the mirror shatters!
My gaze is drawn upwards into her face
And I see the wounding eyes of Beauty,
That few saw and fewer lived to recall,
Yet live, a doubtful mercy to receive.
To see those eyes before me in my mind,
Those orbs of flashing light that do not fade
From sight, even when they are borne away.
III.
As though scales had fallen from my dim eyes,
I stared, viewing the world around me, new
With new vision, by Beauty's face transformed.
The earth, alive and touched with ancient love,
Effused the glow of power at its source,
And I could feel the glory of nature,
Warm and growing, enfolding my body,
My mind, and nurturing my very soul.
Here was the world that I had never known.
Here was the vision to many denied,
And the peace that passes understanding
All at once in the wake of Beauty's glance.
A euphoria seized my wond'ring heart
That rapidly beat with deepest rapture-
Here was Heaven in the place of my birth.
So my eyes had seen, so my heart believed.
Who dares to defy a vision divine?
Who supposes that happiness shall fade?
There is no happy dream that does not wake
Into a world that seems somehow less real.
IV.
With heavy step I came away from there,
At once forgetful of the recent past,
Only certain that the vision I had
Was true, and that I had seen her-Beauty.
Cruel Beauty! That either kills or deserts.
She knows that I will seek her out again,
The bright goddess, who offers such visions
It is worth death to behold her glory.
And should I ever gaze again upon her form-
May I never tear my glad eyes away!
Persephone
I had not been in love with Death
But Death had been in love with me.
He stole me, and bound each to each
We're wedded for eternity.
Now I am mocked by ev'ry shade
That comes this way by her own hands,
Death's mistresses, in love with him.
Shrouded in white wedding bands,
A coffin makes their marriage bed.
They reached the goal their hearts had set
Drinking Lethe's opiate draught.
Lucky mortals! They can forget!
He took me from Enna's sweet vale
Where with flowers I was clad
And my heart was light with springtime.
Every birdsong made me glad.
I heard the ground beneath me shake;
It cracked below my trembling feet
As a dark chariot appeared.
My lord spoke then, in accents sweet
To take my soul away from me-
How can I forget that dark day!
"You are mine now, Persephone,"
He said, "and with me you will stay!"
Thus I descended into Hell
To be the bride of grim-faced Dis,
Held in the warm arms of fever,
Made breathless by his jealous kiss.
How I hungered after sunlight!
How I pined for my life above!
But my days were spent in darkness
Held by Death's harsh, uncalled-for love.
Death! What did your caresses mean,
When you had robbed me of my sky
And placed me in a land of shades?
None but the dead would hear my cry.
None but the dead, the careless dead-
Those shades that once saw hills of green-
That once heard birds and saw the sun,
Empty now of all they'd seen.
And foolish girls run to his arms!
They find their lives so full of woe!
I found my life so full of joy-
Life! Do these mortals even know
The blessings they would change for Hell?
The scent of lilac and the rose,
For a world that has no perfume.
They did not think before they chose
That never again would they dream.
I know now that they do not care.
So willingly they left the world;
So sorely I wished to be there!
Somehow I fell in love with Death.
I have learned to come to Death glad
In heart, and accept his dark world.
I think mayhap I have gone mad;
So gaily I trip among the shades
With a lily in my dark hair,
So lovingly I walk with Death
That Life is no longer my care,
And though an immortal, I hold my breath
Anticipating the visit of Death.
(Anyone who came here by way of a Highlander-related link-this was written long before my whole Methos fixation, and any parallel between Methos/Cassandra, is simply weird, not intentional. But now, I can't read the darn thing without thinking of them. If I've just spoiled to poem for anyone, sorry. It could be worse. I could have pointed out that I sound just like Emily Dickinson, there. Except for it not scanning with "The Yellow Rose of Texas." Oh, dear, I just pointed that out now, haven't I? My bad.)
On Widowhood
Thrown to the ground by a spirit forlorn,
I wait like a seed, dying to be born.
Into the soil my senses creep
As all my feelings yearn for sleep.
I bury myself with my heartstrings torn,
Waiting like a seed, dying to be born.
Winter's chill has numbed my once tear-streaked face.
(I lay me down without a shred of grace.)
I've grown too old for passion's rule.
I've grown to cold not to be cruel.
Before you grow ghostly and leave no trace,
I'll lay me down without a shred of grace.
Where young men die from excess of ideals
The spirit faints and the intellect reels.
Life is too short to be thus quit:
Live, believe, and then and end of it!
Leaving behind some widow-how she feels?
Her spirit faints and her intellect reels.
Death will come to all, we cannot fight it.
The path is dark and nothing will light it,
Not the memories of living well,
Not the flickering flames of Hell.
We light a candle and pray to spite it.
The path is dark and nothing will light it.
Yet, while in life, some beauty we might taste
Before our hearts and souls have gone to waste-
The beauty in a lover's face,
The warm-armed children's fond embrace-
But these, yes, even these, are gone in haste
Before our hearts and souls have gone to waste.
Perhaps beauty will come again to me.
Perhaps love will let my poor heart go free.
I only want to feel again.
My spirit slumbers until then.
If only fate would let my poor soul be.
I hope love can let my poor heart go free.
The all-receiving earth takes in my cry;
With the hope of feeling, I let me die.
My soul's been choked with rage and lust
Until I'm fit for nought but dust-
The shocks of life can no more make me sigh;
For the hope of feeling, I let me die.
Time
When I was young I ran though fields of green
And yellow hue, treading clover, cowslips,
Sweet-smelling grass, as fast as a charger,
Panting, racing to catch up with the world.
My youthful strides were short, and I, though swift,
Thought I would always be behind in Life's
Sweet race 'gainst Time. But now, older, I've slowed.
I stroll down roads and watch my step and yet,
I look behind me, and there I see Time,
Still in the race and gaining upon me.
Where I passed him I do not know, nor can
I judge his speed, and yet I know one thing-
I must lead him, or he'll overtake me,
And this too-short race, for me, will be done.
If I could control Time, Id say, "Go slow,
O Time, you need not run so swiftly now.
Even if you walked, you would overtake me,
And then, I would not hear you pass me by."
For now I hear Time's rapid steps approach.
His feet strike the ground like hoof-beats, pounding
Behind me, some distance behind me still,
But closer than when I first thought I heard
Something, far off, not any threat to me.
A fool, I did not know this was a race
Until my opponent appeared to me
Running as fast as I was wont to do,
But by then was unable, and I cried-
"O Time! If only I knew I raced you!"
But in fact I had raced him all this way
And no matter what the gap-I would lose.
Fierce Time! How could you race so weak a child
As once I was, or this old dame I am?
Atlas-A few Fragments from a Larger Work
(St. John apparently attempted a very ambitious work, possibly under the influence of Shelley. It never got completed, but there are some fragments that were considered decent enough, by St. John's own rigorous standards, to preserve.)
The once-proud son of Saturn's joyous age
When all was spring and life itself was gold
Has been kept low too long to feel his rage,
For even his eternal heart grows old
And ceases to feel that most bitter curse-
His day has passed, but he himself lives on,
A captive, with all his will to submerse,
Not merely overburdened, but withdrawn
From all of his self, his heart, his sense,
Maintaining a face of indifference.
But what a fire of passion lurks within
That chest that now restrains his fruitless cries!
A rage that won't admit to failure's sin
Like thunder's crash to beat against the skies-
Acres of blue that rest on his numb hands
That have grown hard and turned to living stone.
He is a breathing mountain as he stands.
Mere living is the sin he must atone-
No less god than the Olympian lights,
Still he sweats in the shadow of their heights.
