Feb 6
(Source: Lancelot, by Edwin Arlington Robinson)
Gwen just going "f**k him and f**k his kingdom I'm not going back". It doesn't stick for long in this story but maaan...
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(Source: Lancelot, by Edwin Arlington Robinson)
Gwen just going "f**k him and f**k his kingdom I'm not going back". It doesn't stick for long in this story but maaan...
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Why do you sting me now with a small hive Of words that are all poison? I do not ask Much honey; but why poison me for nothing, And with a venom that I know already As I know crowns and wars? Why tell a king— A poor, foiled, flouted, miserable king— That if he lets rats eat his fingers off He’ll have no fingers to fight battles with? I know as much as that, for I am still A king—who thought himself a little less Than God; a king who built him palaces On sand and mud, and hears them crumbling now, And sees them tottering, as he knew they must. You are the man who made me to be King— Therefore, say anything.”
Arthur to Merlin, from E.A. Robinson's Merlin
ea robinson said merlin/dagonet camelot final girls AND endgame???
Lancelot, a poem, EA Robinson, page 103
E. A. Robinson: Merlin: A Poem (1917), Lancelot: A Poem (1920)
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The king has had his world
I am once again thinking of E.A. Robinson’s poetry
[ID: An image that reads:
“And he shall have no peace. With Mordred here, / And Agravaine with Gareth, who is dead / With Gaheris, Gawaine will have no peace. / Gawaine or Mordred - Gawaine with his hate, / Or Mordred with his anger for his birth, / And the black malady of his ambition - / Will make of my Round Table, where was drawn / The circle of a world, a thing of wreck / And yesterday - a furniture forgotten; / And I, who loved the world as Merlin did, / May lose it as he lost it, for a love / That was not peace, and therefore was not love.”]
imperfect audio listen to this if you want to fall out of time before sleep
poetry - Tristram by Robinson
music - Trois mélodies pour le piano, Op. 5: No. 3 in E-Flat Major, Andante soave by Fanny Mendelssohn-Hensel, performed by Sontraud Speidel
image - Rozkřídlená labuť by Josef Klíma (1940)
“Men change in Brittany, Merlin,” said the King; And even his grief had strife to freeze again A dreary smile for the transmuted seer Now robed in heavy wealth of purple silk, With frogs and foreign tassels. On his face, Too smooth now for a wizard or a sage, Lay written, for the King’s remembering eyes, A pathos of a lost authority Long faded, and unconscionably gone; And on the King’s heart lay a sudden cold: “I might as well have left him in his grave, As he would say it, saying what was true,— As death is true. This Merlin is not mine, But Vivian’s. My crown is less than hers, And I am less than woman to this man.”
Then Merlin, as one reading Arthur’s words On viewless tablets in the air before him: “Now, Arthur, since you are a child of mine— A foster-child, and that’s a kind of child— Be not from hearsay or despair too eager To dash your meat with bitter seasoning, So none that are more famished than yourself Shall have what you refuse. For you are King, And if you starve yourself, you starve the state; And then by sundry looks and silences Of those you loved, and by the lax regard Of those you knew for fawning enemies, You may learn soon that you are King no more, But a slack, blasted, and sad-fronted man, Made sadder with a crown.