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My 100th post - Porphyria's lover
I started my blog with a prayer to Muse on Jan 7, 2008.
I wanted my 100th post to be special... special to me. Though I call my scribbles poems, I love to read poems from a old poetry collection of mine.
Porphyria's lover by Robert Browning is the one I go to, when I am distressed, when I am happy and when I am anything in between.
Publishing the poem here, my way of sharing it to my readers.
My friend read it out for me and I am adding that record here, he had given life to this poem. "Thank you so much and God bless you dear. You can't even guess how happy you made me! Thanks for your time."
But his first reaction was, "The guy is crazy and you call this poem your favourite?". Yes. It's a favourite poem of mine, the hero of the poem behaves like a psycho. But the delivery of this poem and the shock we get out of those lines is where Browning's success lie. The anger and helplessness we feel is what Browning set out to achieve and he did just that.
It goes this way!
Poetry recital
THE rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listen'd with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneel'd and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soil'd gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And call'd me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart's endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night's gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I look'd up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipp'd me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily opened her lids: again
Laugh'd the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untighten'd next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blush'd bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propp'd her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorn'd at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gain'd instead!
Porphyria's love: she guess'd not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirr'd,
And yet God has not said a word!
-Robert Browning
