George Gordon, 6th Lord Byron (1788-1824) Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
James Henry Leigh Hunt (1784-1859) John Keats (1795-1821)
"Love is the only satisfactory answer to the problem of human existence."
- Erich Fromm
Welcome to the Romantic Movement! This website is, and will probably ever be, a work in progress...
Please click on the navigation bars to view my various pages, which include everything from a single, beautiful poem by John Keats to a complete ebook on the critic and poet Matthew Arnold. I have also included a few of my own poems, some of which won awards recently, two of which follow, and also an opening fragment from my upcoming book, American Frankenstein, combining historical and fictional characters with a new twist. Please let me know if you want to see more of this as yet unfinished work!
Johnkeats.org will attempt, first and foremost, to be a memorial site to the poets of the Romantic Movement, in particular the Young Romantics; John Keats, Percy Bysshe Shelley (this writer's favourite) and Lord Byron, as well as the insightful Leigh Hunt, who gave crucial early encouragement to those who later surpassed him in talent.
However, it will be more eclectic, and include poets of many eras, from John Donne to Dylan Thomas. In my opinion, real poetry of the last half century or so is so rare that it deserves little mention. Like modern art, modern poetry is largely an oxymoron.
I will include English language poets who wrote mainly of the positive aspects of love and life, of "Beauty" and "Truth", though it may include a poet like poor, pathetic Poe, whose verse is often dark, but hauntingly beautiful and spellbindingly intense.
I believe true poetry has to be beautiful, if indeed it is to be classed as poetry. If we want to immerse ourselves in that which is unpleasant, we can turn on the television or radio, read the newspapers, or view a film, but I believe poetry should be a refuge from the utter and base ugliness which so often surrounds us, and a safe haven from the tempest of daily life. Poetry should indeed be a 'thing of Beauty'.
There is a plethora of information from which to choose to set up a website of this nature, and it is quite a task to select material for the site I envision.
I hope not only to give extracts from the Poets' works, but also anecdotes, biographical information, information about their residences, etc.
But my vision depends on your help.
Donations in any form, i.e. $, Ł, €, etc. (by mail to C. Boucher, 21 Sand Hill Road, #8, Salem, NH 03079 USA) for the development of this website would be most welcome and appreciated, and your ideas are more than welcome! 50% of any donations will be given to charities such as Oxfam.
Thank you for looking at my site, and come back soon!
Lastly, I would like to stress that if you do not believe that Poetry has any importance in today's world, you are sadly mistaken, you are unquestionably at the wrong place, and, frankly, in the wrong World!
Omnia vincit amor
My Saviour
(HPW - Wo Ai Ni!)
My Saviour came to me when I
Thought Love long since had pass'd me by;
When Happiness did seem an empty dream,
A single teardrop 'midst a briny stream.
From Eastern shores She came to bless
This weary, cynic soul with tenderness.
No goddess ethereal, nor spectral prophet She,
But much, much more; the very world to me.
You may have your Saviour in the clouds above,
I'll worship mine, the woman whom I love.
She snatch'd me from the Depths, She saved my life.
She who is my Saviour, my darling, my wife.
Poem © 2007 Christopher Boucher
Fragment from my American Frankenstein
"One of my less scrupulous assistants who helped in procuring bodies for my dissection classes had told me of the recent drowning death in the Shuylkill River of a middle aged woman who had no known relations. She was due to be laid to rest in a few hours time. I gathered my bone saw and bag of tools together and made my way to the churchyard where she was to be buried, collecting my assistant on the way.
After the minister had said a few words over the mournerless body and was just out of sight, but before too many shovels-full of dirt had covered the departed, I appeared from behind a tree and spoke.
“Stop!” I exclaimed to the thin, unwashed gentleman filling the hole.
“Oh, it’s you, Dr Schmidt! Need another specimen, do you?”
“Not the whole thing today, John.” I replied. “Just a leg.”
“Just a leg?” he repeated, laughing. “That’s a new one! Alright, then, but be quick. I have more graves to dig this afternoon.”
My assistant and I jumped into the hole and pried off the coffin lid. I took out my now beloved saw and hastily removed most of the lady’s right leg, a little more than I would actually require, so as to allow for an error in exact measurement. I wrapped the bloody limb in burlap and climbed back into the daylight.
“Thanks, John, here’s a little silver for your troubles,” I said as I placed a few gleaming silver dollars into his eager hands.
“Happy to be of service, Doc,” replied John as he placed the coins in his waistcoat pocket.
Once back in my lab, I unwrapped the leg and put it on ice..."
New Moon
Phase the First
(Lines to a Child Unborn)
Pale moon, rejuvenator of my Soul,
Illumine softly, gentler than the Sun.
Thy soothing glow hast made me whole
And enlightened me, my Blessed One.
Pale moon, creation of nine thousand miles -
Thou miracle of Love, thou destined Star,
Brighten even bleakest Night with Smiles
And let thy laughter echo 'midst the hills afar.
Anastasia, my Child of Light so young,
Thy birth has changed our Universe, 'tis true.
None of Heaven's Seraphim or Cherubim has sung
Through all Eternity, a Song more beautiful than You.
Poem © 2007 Christopher Boucher
