The Rebirth of Romance

Will Perilous Times Spur the Return of Chivalry?

“God Speed” by Edmund Blair Leighton, 1900

Feeling blue and a tad abused about the state of relations between the two genders (yes, I go with Nature’s chromosomal dichotomy on this, while honoring the diversity of human affection and identity), I recently took the risk of writing and then actually publishing on Facebook (fool that I am) a classic Elizabethan sonnet on the theme of the current estrangement between men and women. Inspired by the insightful work of Claudia Phillips and her husband Jonathan which encourages the return of timeless masculine/feminine dynamics in dating and marriage, I set out to express the feeling of alienation which many men of my acquaintance experience in their dealings with women.

The sonnet poured out in 30 minutes or so over strong unsweetened black coffee, butter-soaked Ezekiel toast, and slices of organic apple (my customary morning meal) here in my cozy little home in a remote mountain village; a home replete with images of romance and devotion, human and divine. With a Radha/Krishna here, John and Yoko there, Isis and Osiris in the bedroom, and the Madonna and Child which hung in my childhood home hovering over my breakfast nook, I attempted to express traditional sentiments in a time-honored poetic form, at a historical moment (here on the eve of the 2024 election) which may certainly be said to jibe with Prince Hamlet’s observation that “the time is out of joint.”

It didn’t turn out well.

Not to say that the poem itself was lousy. It is a competent enough rendition of 21st century observations into a 16th century form, with iambic pentameter in place and the rhyme scheme carefully observed (ABAB, CDCD, EFEF, GG), and no jarring anachronisms thrown in to mar the timeless feeling I wanted to achieve. But I knew that I walked a tightrope in choosing to share it publicly. I knew that many men and quite a few introspective women among the FB followers would likely resonate with it. And I also knew that there would be those who know me personally who might well read personal inferences into the lines, who would speculate and murmur, and that I would then have to deal with repercussions and misunderstandings from people I care about.

But then I’ve always erred on the side of taking the risk in moments like this, and it’s not like I’m dropping a bombshell on the order of Darwin’s Origin of Species into the waters of history here - it’s just a sonnet of longing from a goddess-revering middle-aged man for a beautifully restored romance between the divine feminine and the exalted masculine, as we all struggle through the muck of our lonely malaise.

As it transpired, there were indeed inferences and murmurings and consequences, and I chose to unpublish the sonnet. These have since been soothed and healed and clarified. Now I’m left with the piece as it keeps running through my mind. So I offer it again here, with the cautionary note that the poem is meant as a general reflection and does not reference any one person. I am an ardent believer in the renaissaance of true romance and I delight to observe the stirrings of a return to celebration of the timeless dynamic of assertive protector/provider to compassionate inspirer/nurturer - a dynamic which may be said to be theater in which the thousand variations of our ancient search for love plays out.

But first we need to recognize the estrangement and its tragic consequences, and seek a way home:

Autumnal Sonnet

I can no longer trust my heart nor soul
into the care of daughters of sweet Eve.
To heal their wound exacts too high a toll,
and in true love few of them now believe.
Cold pride can leave them bitter and unkind,
disdaining Love while longing for its fire.
They lightly leave their ancient joys behind,
while empty wombs wait sighing for a sire.
They long for men to be like men again,
while aping manhood's coarser ways and voice.
And guilty men choose meekly to befriend,
and grieve to end as soon discarded toys.
Yet still I seek for one who seeks the One,
in me, in her, enflamed as the Sun.

The Accolade, Edmund Blair Leighton, 1899

We are, I now believe, actually in the midst of the apocalyptic times which have been prophesied by one seer or another since I was a teenager. Financial collapse, political upheaval, and global war now vie with environmental degradation and spiritual crisis for our fearful attention. In such times, humanity flees to seeming safe harbors and the remnants of traditional values - as money flees to rising gold, so we can return to the precious metal of our innate legacy of human love. Women may feel driven on a primal level to seek protection for themselves and their children and provision for the future. Men may be at last inspired to shake off the emasculating effects of modern conditioning and find meaning and purpose in providing that protection, safety, and provision. Women may choose to resist the justified temptation to decry the collective wound they carry from centuries of patriarchal domination, and embody instead the awesome feminine power endowed by Nature…a power which like nothing else can inspire men to rise to their greatest and most joyful purpose.

Within that timeless container, the million variations of each sovereign being’s desires and destinies may play out, unhindered by patriarchy’s arrogant remnants and no longer marred by picking at the scabs of our ancient wounds. So we may be able to walk forward together, hand in hand towards the immense but blissful work of healing and restoration.

There. Spoken like the romantic I am. Attack and criticize and belittle if you wish. A knight worthy of the name doesn’t give a rat’s behind for the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune…and faint heart never won fair lady.

blessings,

Michael