ET IN ARCADIA EGO
Extraordinary Discourses of Unnecessary Matter
[in PASTORAL MODE]
Sketch
[EX URBE, the urban exodus, in the sense of to or from the city. The Industrial Revolution sends out its siren call and the rustic masses flock to its beating buzz centers: the urban exodus. Conversely a reverse movement of countryside inversion in solace-seekers sprung from urban stock find countryside perversions, some of them vacationers, others rugged mountaineers, all newly scientific in their evolving farming techniques, or revolving waves of posh burghers searching extended stretches of villa space on the campus intending to come enjoy the sweet morning dew and the fresh country air. Can you blame them even one little bit?
Yet don’t forget: some have been here since the dawn of time.]
‘cause even in Arcadia I have set my Camp
idyllic
and there it is I lie
My Bucolica is a modern reboot of the "eclogue" form originating in Classical Greece and Rome and much rehashed throughout all European literature. It usually comes in the form of a collection of shepherd's songs, dialogues, and stories featuring themes of love/desire, nature/the seasons, death/mortality, and the passing of time. It is often a playground to poeticize the animal world and humankind's relation to it, as well as particulars of the seemingly idyllic life led by simple shepherds and farmers in Arcadia. It is also referred to as bucolic literature. I wrote my Bucolica 2017-2018 in a mix of poetry and prose.
About the Creator
Rob Angeli
sunt lacrimae rerum et mentem mortalia tangunt
There are tears of things, and mortal objects touch the mind.
-Virgil Aeneid I.462
Keep reading
More stories from Rob Angeli and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Road to Nowhere
Trigger warnings: Violence, Death. "May the Sun burn your tongue out, woman," Fredrick's father screamed the curse into his mother's ear as their elegant little carriage rumbled along, its polished wood and gilded trim glinting in the torchlight. They had just left the small village of Saffron and were on an unnamed road to the capital for the Royal wedding. Fredrick leaned back in his plush velvet seat to escape into the passing landscape, but across from him sat the servant boy, a scrappy lad named Jack. Jack's eyes held a mixture of awe and fear, the kind that only a commoner could feel in the presence of nobility. Jack looked up and caught Fredrick's gaze, offering him a sad little smile before reaching into his pocket and retrieving a little caramel treat. This candy was no doubt stolen from the kitchen treat cupboard; if he was caught with it, he would be locked in the box as punishment.
By Frank English5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
"Can you blame them even one little bit? Yet don’t forget:" At this point in the poem, this rhyme happens in such a natural way, and for some reason it made me hear the whole piece in Jim Morrison's voice, like a Doors song, with music rolling beneath it. Lutes or something like the fella seems to be strumming in your wonderful sketch? Who's to say? Let your imagination run wild. But if Jim Morrison recited this over lutes, that would be pretty cool. Loved this!