In my third year at university we were asked to create an iamginary poet, and then write the poem/collection that made this poet famous. I wanted to create an angstful character (im sorry for the terrible cliche) and use lots of references to classical and ancient literature. Here's what I came up with! enjoy :)
Claude Henderson was
born to a very rich family. There was not a single point in his childhood where
he went without. He was always clever, impressing teachers with his literary
skills as far back as primary school. As he began to grow, and the literal
silver spoon in his mouth became proverbial, he enjoyed a privileged education
at one of England’s most prestigious schools. His father was rarely home,
having large interests in gold and oil, but his mother was the typical rich
wife, living a life of luxury and expense. But despite her being frequently
home, she was effectively absent, a valium addiction destroying her emotions
and creating an air of ambivalence in how she felt towards her son.
Claude’s years at
university were full of ups and downs, with his sense of self-righteousness and
self-entitlement coming in to direct contrast with his popularity for being
wealthy and a self-made party boy. He was accepted for a literature and
Creative Writing degree at King College London, and it was here that he began
his life of debauchery; buying cars, running up bar tabs that equalled most
students loans, his frivolous nature bought him many friends, and won him
female attention. But these materialistic pleasures were in no way fulfilling
and left a hole in his soul that he constantly yearned to fill. He was studying
literature, and his one saving grace was his ability to write. It soon became
his vice and his one means of escape from the lifestyle he had created for
himself, his cocoon in which he could hide and be the teenage boy he had never
truly become.
By second year he had
ceased to go home, except on the rare occasions when his father requested his
attendance, for some particular social event that it would have seemed simply
improper for him to miss. Instead he lived in a flat he had bought, a penthouse
in London where he studied. Here he was the true socialite, a 21st
century dandy and he entertained his guests through their drunken and drug
fuelled stupors with tales and poems he had written.
In his third year he
was published, and this was his ultimate downfall. He had written some poems,
sonnets, when on a particularly relaxing drug binge, and was told that they
were marvellous. His publication was called “Sonnets from the wealth of love”,
a play on the fact that despite his wealth and never lacking in anything he
desired, it was love he truly valued, and love that he could never truly attain.
But this desire for emotion was not sufficient to overcome his nature, he was
materialistic, and he was addicted to the life he lived. He was also losing his
skill as a poet, only managing to write anything publishable when high or
drunk. He began to find the world was too much when he was sober; he could no
longer function within society.
Before his graduation
Claude committed suicide, a massive overdose containing a cocktail of drugs. His
suicide note, whilst never fully disclosed to the press, was lyrical and
eloquent, reflecting his ability before he decayed in to a shell of the poet he
had been. It was published the year after his death, a testimony to unhappiness
and peoples inability to prevent it. Its final line read “The world was not
ready for me, and I was not ready for the world”.
“Sonnets
from the wealth of love”
Sonnet
1
What should I do if my
advances fail
The girl I love is
nothing but a stone
What tragic words
should my flirting entail
To stop my heart from
feeling so alone
My mask do’eth hide my
blackened face of woe
Whilst yours, unmasked,
do’eth shine a summers day
My pain greater than
which Apollo knows
More intricate than old
Hermes could say
My love, my lust,
return to whence you came,
An angel which to
Stella I’d compare
I’m Astrophill, in
stars I find the same
A love, a beauty,
delicate and rare
Aphrodite, tempt me not
I will not join Paris’
lot
Sonnet
2
Your hands’ soft care
no longer mine to feel
As I have painted my
own fate
What does my heart now
need to heal
Some love that my black
core placates
Hermione’s stony
countenance you
Reflect with every
little cut you make
My scars are yours, oh
heal them do
My love is yours to
give or take
Fiery passion inside me
burns
Scolding the lies that
I once told
For deep inside my body
yearns
To make that angel mine
to hold
Come back to me, you
can abide
For you belong here at
my side
Sonnet
3
As Ovid’s words my
fiery lust reflect
And Sappho from the men
doeth women take
Your love does
ruthlessly my heart infect
And alters ever
decision I make
Your body, lost to me,
as paradise
But found again as
loves labours are won
I offer all I can, does
that suffice
Just speak the words my
love, it shall be done
Or am I Icarus, set up
to fall
Your burning gaze
melting what keeps me whole
I wish that you too
could hear Cupids call
For he has to you
delivered my soul
There’s just one place
that I need you to come
Return with me to loves
Elysium
Sonnet
4
I see your beauty,
hidden unto you
Your radiance does
shine as summers light
An angel, I announce it
to be true
Your frown is
Persephone’s winter night
Your diamond tears,
watery gems, they glide
Your sadness is the
whole worlds’ pain to bear
Your beauty unknown,
you for ever hide
But all should see a
beauty that’s so rare
If Daphne cast away her
leaves and bark
Then still your beauty
would remain my voice
Exalted beyond gods,
the heavens hark
For ever you remain my
perfect choice
My words are not enough
to show you why
It’s next to me that
each night you should lie
Sonnet
5
As your rebukes do
break my heart in two
I back away and hide
amidst the dark
There in the shadows I
reside whilst you
Move on, pain free,
bearing no hurt or mark
My tears are yours, my
ghostly girl, delight
My Catherine, lost to
me forever more
I'm sleepless, standing
waiting in the night
For the raven who will
tell me of Lenore
I give you my eternity
to own
In payment I require
nothing much
But could your time be
briefly mine to loan
Ill cherish it with
such a gentle touch
Sometimes taking a
chance will not suffice
But baby this time you
should roll the dice
Sonnet
6
“All hope abandon, ye
who enter here”
Where only bottomless
perdition waits
Evil Baal, Beelzebub
watches and leers
My paradise is lost,
thus he relates
Might I return to love
you once again
A miracle from mount
Zion is sent
Or will the muses guide
me from this pain
Helicon’s inspiration
will be lent
I, simple Seraphim doth
your heart need
Its’ virtues and its
powers keep me chained
I hear the angels’
warnings but don’t heed
As my lust for dominion
can’t be tamed
As my ascension to your
love begins
I vow that I will
denounce all my sins
Claude’s
suicide note
I never could prepare
myself for this life; adolescence decayed my emotions rather than nurtured
them.
Money is the root of
all evil, just as it is the root of all joy, and as the devil whispers to me I
sit here, ready to go forth and meet him.
I have done my time and
suffered much, but none of you will ever understand my pains.
To be the one that
everybody envies, and be the one that everybody hates.
To be the one that
everyone exploits, given anything, buying emotion.
The more you have, the
more you lose, and I have lost the parts of me that kept me sane.
Even the stillness now
shudders in my mind, no longer does the liquid leave the needle with that sense
of calm and tranquillity.
The medicine just
cannot fix me, and as I lie here, my final voice inky before me, I once again
feel the emptiness that comes with my sobriety.
I have my addictions,
and they control me. I am owned, and I know that I can only release myself with
one final high.
This high will take me,
that final velvet curtain sliding across the eyes of the dying, but I don’t
want you to be upset. I am ready, I find piece and solace in the knowledge that
I will be gone.
Misery is a poison, it
is a virus, it is a disease, and it is infectious. So as you live your life
avoid people carrying it; for they will infect you.
To all the friends I
bought along the way, good luck, you each take a part of me with you.
To all the family I
sold, good bye.
The world was not ready
for me, and I was not ready for the world.