Start sending in your work, Neo-Victorians! Here's another poem for you...
VERDANT ALCHEMY
Through verdant alchemy,
we synthesize dreams in
ardent symmetry.
Emerging sleepers awaken,
once immersed in the void
of oblique consciousness;
maps and atlases fell silent.
Echo, wake;
Erase this parchment heart.
Pulse, wave;
Raze this tidal tongue.
Resign, release,
relapse, return,
revive, renew,
restore, reclaim.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Someone has to start it off...
At the risk of looking self-important, I'm going to post a few of my works in hopes that people will take interest and start submitting and get the word out. Remember, send any and all submissions to theneovictorian@hotmail.com. Thanks, and enjoy.
IN BLESSINGS AND BANISHMENT
There's something in the curve of your collarbone,
its elegance in majestic defiance, radiant architecture -
and in the serpentine whispering of your hair,
spiraling down like oak wine to intoxicate me.
There's something in the beat of your heart,
a quartet of cellos patiently pining, decrescendo -
and in the hushed depths of your irises,
wisdom hidden among the mahogany boughs.
There's something in the negative space,
the damning silence between words, dissonant -
and in the prolonged stares into nothing
where I find you most often, unaware of me.
SPIKE THE FEVER
Froth and foam, churning eddy,
and pour from the bay of his mouth.
The fever sticks to you like burning pitch,
singing your skin like blazing parchment,
slowly fraying at your ends.
Noxious toxins pulse through thready veins
like a promise, a man with strong hands
and broad shoulders, dependable.
Your hide is a husk, leather-cracked
and aged, time redefined in its celerity,
the mortal coil unraveling before you.
Jaundice sets in as sure as the sunset,
twilight encroaching upon golden shores,
a sickly turning at day's decay.
Now the pupils fade from obsidian to slate,
granite to opal, a metamorphosis that ends
in smoky milk-white, a glass fog.
Words collapse under labored gasps, weaker now,
air frail as wisps on the breeze, fragile strands
to bolster your final onslaught.
And then it's done, as quick as it began,
a transient terror creeping along your bowels
in search for the light of day.
- Calder Dougherty
IN BLESSINGS AND BANISHMENT
There's something in the curve of your collarbone,
its elegance in majestic defiance, radiant architecture -
and in the serpentine whispering of your hair,
spiraling down like oak wine to intoxicate me.
There's something in the beat of your heart,
a quartet of cellos patiently pining, decrescendo -
and in the hushed depths of your irises,
wisdom hidden among the mahogany boughs.
There's something in the negative space,
the damning silence between words, dissonant -
and in the prolonged stares into nothing
where I find you most often, unaware of me.
SPIKE THE FEVER
Froth and foam, churning eddy,
and pour from the bay of his mouth.
The fever sticks to you like burning pitch,
singing your skin like blazing parchment,
slowly fraying at your ends.
Noxious toxins pulse through thready veins
like a promise, a man with strong hands
and broad shoulders, dependable.
Your hide is a husk, leather-cracked
and aged, time redefined in its celerity,
the mortal coil unraveling before you.
Jaundice sets in as sure as the sunset,
twilight encroaching upon golden shores,
a sickly turning at day's decay.
Now the pupils fade from obsidian to slate,
granite to opal, a metamorphosis that ends
in smoky milk-white, a glass fog.
Words collapse under labored gasps, weaker now,
air frail as wisps on the breeze, fragile strands
to bolster your final onslaught.
And then it's done, as quick as it began,
a transient terror creeping along your bowels
in search for the light of day.
- Calder Dougherty
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Submissions!
To submit your works, email me at theneovictorian@hotmail.com.
If I like what I see, I'll shoot you an email back letting you know!
If I like what I see, I'll shoot you an email back letting you know!
Welcome to the movement.
I don't think you've lived until you've replaced all the fluorescent bulbs in your apartment with blacklights, done enough drugs to kill a rhinoceros, and watched Are You Afraid Of The Dark? with your best friends. I don't think you've lived until you've had a weekend that was a little expensive and completely irresponsible. I don't think you've lived until your older brother comes to visit you on your 20th birthday and remarks, "You remind me of a young Hemingway or Kerouac," and vows to be just like you when he grows up.
History tells us that the Victorian era was a revival of Elizabethan ideals; romance, decadence, and passion. Above all, the arts and progressive thinking played a major role in culture. In today's society, the screeching din of millions upon millions of voices talking over one another, at one another, about one another, drowns out all real communication and expression. No one says or does anything worth doing anymore; it's all trivial. We go to therapists and take pills that numb our emotions, we have conversations through microscopic circuits beneath our fingers, we watch television shows about people who shame themselves for money. It's enough to drive one to apathy, to ignorance and acceptance of a life not worth living.
Throughout school and culture, we're taught about classics like the plays of William Shakespeare. Everyone groans, and says they don't understand him, and how is this relevant. They would rather put their minds on pause and resume the slaughter of a thousand little pixels on the screen, because that's more entertaining. You can't be a writer anymore if you're not edgy and contemporary, which translates to, vulgar and marketable. You can't be a singer anymore if you don't use auto-tune. You can't be anything unless it's fresh and can be sold, when in reality, every movie coming out this year is a regurgitation of a book or another movie that's already been made. Nothing is sacred, nothing is real, everything is bullshit.
Do you know any contemporary classics? Is there anyone during our lifetime that has the literary testicles to stand the test of time against the greats like Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or Poe? It's different now, they say. Mass media and the internet make it harder for one person to make such an irrevocable impact on the arts. That's bullshit, I say; wouldn't that make it, in theory, easier to make an impact? Maybe for one person it's hard, but what about a few people? A group? A community of artists, writers, musicians, and thinkers congregating into a new movement, refusing to blend in to contemporary conservative capitalist bullshit. Haven't you always wanted to be a part of a real revolution? I have. I always have. And there has never been something worthwhile to get medieval about in this day and age when everyone has their two cents to put in. But I refuse to go unsung into the night, and I know a lot of others who feel the same.
Welcome to the Neo-Victorian movement. Starting with this blog, I hope to cultivate a massive community of creative, progressive people who revere the great masters of art and culture, and strive to live our lives in their footsteps and make an impact on this critical time in human history. I don't want my time on this earth to be remembered by the culture-defining heroes like Stephenie Meyer, Seth Rogen, and the cast of Jersey Shore. I don't want to be remembered by the music of Britney Spears or Miley Cyrus. I want to live on in textbooks, in classrooms, in the streets, in lyrics, in the hearts and minds of everyone around the world for my contributions to the arts, just like the masters that we hear about every day. By choosing to live and appreciate things as they did, by shaping my craft around their themes common to the everyman, by refusing to live under the tyranny of others and following my heart's wildest passions, it is my fondest wish that we are heard and given stance in this world for heartless men with empty words. I want to grasp life by its throat and drink the marrow from its bones, savor every dream and and every scorned lover it has to offer; every ounce of life, love, and wonder.
Keep checking back for a variety of different creative spectacles. I hope to post poetry, short fiction, essays, art, music, photography, anything and everything that bleeds with passion and deserves to be heard in this world that aches for true beauty in a time of falsehood.
Yours,
Calder.
History tells us that the Victorian era was a revival of Elizabethan ideals; romance, decadence, and passion. Above all, the arts and progressive thinking played a major role in culture. In today's society, the screeching din of millions upon millions of voices talking over one another, at one another, about one another, drowns out all real communication and expression. No one says or does anything worth doing anymore; it's all trivial. We go to therapists and take pills that numb our emotions, we have conversations through microscopic circuits beneath our fingers, we watch television shows about people who shame themselves for money. It's enough to drive one to apathy, to ignorance and acceptance of a life not worth living.
Throughout school and culture, we're taught about classics like the plays of William Shakespeare. Everyone groans, and says they don't understand him, and how is this relevant. They would rather put their minds on pause and resume the slaughter of a thousand little pixels on the screen, because that's more entertaining. You can't be a writer anymore if you're not edgy and contemporary, which translates to, vulgar and marketable. You can't be a singer anymore if you don't use auto-tune. You can't be anything unless it's fresh and can be sold, when in reality, every movie coming out this year is a regurgitation of a book or another movie that's already been made. Nothing is sacred, nothing is real, everything is bullshit.
Do you know any contemporary classics? Is there anyone during our lifetime that has the literary testicles to stand the test of time against the greats like Shakespeare, or Tennyson, or Poe? It's different now, they say. Mass media and the internet make it harder for one person to make such an irrevocable impact on the arts. That's bullshit, I say; wouldn't that make it, in theory, easier to make an impact? Maybe for one person it's hard, but what about a few people? A group? A community of artists, writers, musicians, and thinkers congregating into a new movement, refusing to blend in to contemporary conservative capitalist bullshit. Haven't you always wanted to be a part of a real revolution? I have. I always have. And there has never been something worthwhile to get medieval about in this day and age when everyone has their two cents to put in. But I refuse to go unsung into the night, and I know a lot of others who feel the same.
Welcome to the Neo-Victorian movement. Starting with this blog, I hope to cultivate a massive community of creative, progressive people who revere the great masters of art and culture, and strive to live our lives in their footsteps and make an impact on this critical time in human history. I don't want my time on this earth to be remembered by the culture-defining heroes like Stephenie Meyer, Seth Rogen, and the cast of Jersey Shore. I don't want to be remembered by the music of Britney Spears or Miley Cyrus. I want to live on in textbooks, in classrooms, in the streets, in lyrics, in the hearts and minds of everyone around the world for my contributions to the arts, just like the masters that we hear about every day. By choosing to live and appreciate things as they did, by shaping my craft around their themes common to the everyman, by refusing to live under the tyranny of others and following my heart's wildest passions, it is my fondest wish that we are heard and given stance in this world for heartless men with empty words. I want to grasp life by its throat and drink the marrow from its bones, savor every dream and and every scorned lover it has to offer; every ounce of life, love, and wonder.
Keep checking back for a variety of different creative spectacles. I hope to post poetry, short fiction, essays, art, music, photography, anything and everything that bleeds with passion and deserves to be heard in this world that aches for true beauty in a time of falsehood.
Yours,
Calder.
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