Growing up the son of a famous physician and from an early age being exposed to the often harrowing world of early 19th century medicine most probably led to Thomas Lovell Beddoes 1803 - 1849 developing what Coleridge described as "The skeleton complex" for Beddoes spent periods of his life suffering deppression and seemingly obsessed with death...He is remembered as one of a small group of revivalists of an Elizabethan style of verse that sprang up in the early part of the 19th century,and for being perhaps the most prone amongst this circle for dwelling upon the eeirie...
This poem by Beddoes surely alludes to a visitation by death.....Heres the link to the page where you can hear this sound poem..
http://groups.msn.com/acousticmusiciansandpoetssoundarchive/poetrysounds.msnw?action=get_message&mview=0&a mp;ID_Message=343
Regards.
Jim Clark
PS..Dont forget you can if you prefer listen to my sound poems at my Yahoo "sound poetry" web group (look in "files") heres that link
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/bloozman_uk/
All rights are reserved on this sound recording/copyright/patent Jim Clark 2003
THE GHOSTS' MOONSHINE
It is midnight, my wedded;
Let us lie under
The tempest bright undreaded,
In the warm thunder:
(Tremble and weep not! What can you fear?)
My heart's best wish is thine, -
That thou wert white, and bedded
On the softest bier,
In the ghost's moonshine.
Is that the wind? No, no;
Only two devils, that blow
Through the murderer's ribs to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
Who is there, she said afraid, yet
Stirring and awaking
The poor old dead? His spade, it
Is only making, -
(Tremble and weep not! What do you crave?)
Where yonder grasses twine,
A pleasant bed, my maid, that
Children call a grave,
In the cold moonshine.
Is that the wind? No, no;
Only two devils, that blow
Through the murderer's ribs to and fro,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
What doest thou strain above her
Lovely throat's whiteness?
A silken Chain, to cover
Her bosom's brightness?
(Tremble and weep not: what dost thou fear?)
- My blood is spilt like wine,
Thou hast strangled and slain me, lover,
Thou hast stabbed me dear,
In the ghosts' moonshine.
Is that the wind? No, no;
Only her goblin doth blow
Through the murderer's ribs to and fro,
In its own moonshine.
Reply With Quote
