Amongst the Paris Dead: Oscar Wilde and Frédéric Chopin

I began writing this on the eve of a birth, followed the next day by a death, both of which occurred in the middle of the 19^th century.  Given the title of this little piece it’s not too difficult to discern that I mean Oscar Wilde, born October 16, 1854, and Frédéric Chopin, died October 17, 1849.  Both of these ghosts, friends as I call them, haunt me almost every day of my life—one with brilliant words, the other with melancholy music.

HWA's Poetry Showcase Volume III

I am unnaturally excited to announce that my poem “She Walks in Moonlight” has been published in HWA’s Poetry Showcase Volume III and is now available on Amazon in both paperback and Kindle/electronic format.  It is a great honor for me to be included amongst such great poets as Bruce Boston, Corrine De Winter, Alessandro Manzetti, and many others.  Link to the anthology below.

Back from Europe

I recently returned from an unforgettable month-long journey through Europe.  This “adventure” was originally planned for last year, but superfluous work assignments combined with a torn hamstring prevented it.  For once, however, I am grateful and thankful that work impeded such a sojourn from happening—though I’m certainly not grateful or thankful about having my hamstring torn from the bone!

Traveling through Europe during the summer of 2016 was far more enjoyable for me mostly because of one reason:  my undying obsession with the summer of 1816, or “the year without a summer.”  I have had an intense fascination with the haunting events that took place at the Villa Diodati during that dark and stormy summer ever since I first read about it as a teenager.  Late-night readings of ghost stories and dark poetry in the midst of violent storms, discussions of vampires and other preternatural creatures from midnight till morning, and supposed laudanum-induced madness and debauchery—seriously, what’s not to love?

Opening Post

Welcome!

My name is Clay F. Johnson and this site is dedicated to both my own poetry and to the poetry that I love, both new and old.  I have been writing poetry and short stories off and on (mostly off) for the past five years—university studies, family/social obligations and career expectations have all added to periods of limited creativity or "off-ness."  Even though I have had to refuse my artistic inclinations at times, writing poetry is dear to my heart.  I like to classify much of my poetry—not all—as Dark Romantic, a sort of "pleasing melancholy," an ethereal Gothic of ruin and decay amid unspoiled nature in all her beauty and chaos.  And with regard to all things Gothic and Romantic, some of the poets whom I never hesitate to turn to include Coleridge, Wordsworth, Mary Robinson, Byron, Percy Bysshe Shelley, and my beloved Keats.

Even though I have been writing intermittently for the past five years, I have never attempted to publish any of my work—until recently, that is.  I began sending out some of my favorite poems to journals and magazines that I was familiar with back in March of this year and I am extremely excited to announce that one of those poems has been accepted for publication.  Being a complete novice to publishing etiquette, I am hesitant to publicize exactly where my work will appear just yet.  However, I will say that my poem will appear in a collection of poems and will hopefully be available on Amazon later this summer.  You can be sure I will post that link when I find out more.

Being that I am just now creating this little website and that I have absolutely no followers, I cannot say with certainty what will become of it.  I would like to think that I will slowly get followers and even befriend other poets and writers whose work I admire (and vice versa) and use this as a medium to share and support their literary endeavors.  Or perhaps the dust will begin to settle immediately after publishing this piece, and thus my first and last BlogSpot post will be in the early hours of Friday the 13th, 2016—an already dark and gloomy spring eerily reminiscent of that "year without a summer" of 1816...okay, I'll stop.  But no matter which direction this site takes, you can rest assured that I shall never stop writing as long as living blood and inspiration flows within me.

Thanks for reading and please keep checking back.

Clay F. Johnson