Welcome to the Fourth Issue of Poetica Victorian:A Journal of Victorian Poetry!
Below you will find the table of contents of our fourth issue and other news that accompanies this issue. The actual contents of the magazine will be, by our new decided policy, sent to all our subscribers by e-mail. If you would like to subscribe to our magazine (It's Free!!) please visit the link on top of this page which says subscriptions.
This is the fourth issue of Poetica Victorian, a new poetry journal which features the old style of poetry. We are going back to the great days of old, the days of Victorian poetry where the great authors like Edgar Allan Poe, Emily Dickinson, William Wordsworth, Alfred Lord Tennyson, and many others wrote their beautiful poems. Modern poetry does not hold the same beauty as the great poems of old and we here at Poetica Victorian are dedicated to bringing back the light of 17th-19th century poetry.
Inside this Issue you will find:
- The Representative Victorian Poem
- The Letter from the Editor
- Philosophy Articles
- Letter from the Staff
- 8 Poems
- Closing Remarks
- Company Statement and Statement of Rights
My dreams, forever haunted by the strains of Creegan Rowan
as she sat by a lilting fire that night near Inishowan,
her fiddle singing other songs n’er played by common men
who ever pander to their kings for sovereigns, soured fen.
She plays song of the Orient, thought I, but why in Eire?
‘Twas then I heard a stranger note unlike the tirra-lira
in common heard at Doolin or along the Gaeltacht water.
My soul! said I beneath my breath, Here plays an Elfin daughter!
Eyes closed in dream, her lips apart, her features all aglow,
I knew her thoughts lay dead asleep as fingers plucked, as burned her bow!
Oh Creegan! did my heart cry out, Make love! Be love this night!
Then somewhere in her heaving breast she heard my words, new notes alight
did fire that place with majesty unheard by human ear—
Ah, siren strains! Yet not siren, but elements infilled with fear
and awe of That which brings us things we sometimes feel be ours alone.
Yet I know Creegan, humble Creegan, borrowed them until they’d flown.
Tonight, though many years have gone, I yet strain hard to hear
a melody I cannot know again unless she, near,
pick up her instrument and tune it to her prancing heart
and bring forth wild unerring strains of flame that lick, that dart,
that cut like golden scythes the soul beleaguered, lost, outworn,
and longing for that time of rest where all world tares are shorn.
by Scathe meic Beorh
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