I would like to share with all of you an incredible web-site dedicated to the enjoyment and promotion of classical poetry – Poetica Victorian: A Journal of Classical Poetry
Poetica Victorian is a journal and organization looking to spread a message: the poetry of old is still beautiful for contemporary times, and that this so called “old” form is still relevant to the modern world.
Poetica Victorian is a journal of classical style poetry where form is used to create great works with powerful direction. Like the works of Tennyson, Bronte, Browning, Kipling, Frost and all the greatest poets of these styles, the journal’s poetry has depth and meaning hidden not just in the words but in how they are said. The poems and contents of the journal are designed to make readers feel the poetry, believing that the classical styles accomplish this better than those of free-verse poetry. Classical style poetry is as relevant today to the world as it was when it was once used more widely, however the modern literary community has forsaken the art in favor of a more democratic form in free-verse. Poetica Victorian is driven to change that, and as a result brings us their Journal of Classical Poetry. They seek meter and rhyme scheme, power, and the ability to move the soul in their poems, and give those poems in which they find such over to their readers so that they may enjoy this beautiful style of poetry even in this era of empty modern poetry.
Representative Poem: The Comfort of the Cold by Armond Richards
The quiet cold keeps to itself, the heavy snow in silence,
the ending world is filled with dripping, soundless notes of violence.
The feral call of dying men have stripped compassion bare
of all that makes a human heart worth more than faithful prayer.
I anchor to a memory: a sunrise once forgotten,
a drowning sense of happiness, my somber smile left rotten.
I remember loving you. I remember burning
through emotions vast as oceans, lessons worth the learning.
I keep the gilded promise you left broken in the window,
reconvened the pieces and enjoyed the decrescendo.
The whispers left here, cracked and trembling, keeps no peace for me.
Perdition finds my burdened ear and sings of tragedy.
Await the comfort of the cold, of shattered hearts and stillness.
The ending world is full of love, humanity’s true illness.
I remember loving you. I remember crying.
I recall the sunsets when the best of me laid dying.