Lestat: He cannot stand Shelley because he was dishonest in his romanticism, but Byron, who never pretended to be anything other than what he was both in his verse and in his life he adores. Keats was akin to Apollo reborn into innocence; and he reads all the French Symbolists except for Baudelaire. He enjoys Italian sonnets, Shakespeare, Sidney, Spencer, Skelton, and Heine.
Louis: loves Baudelaire. Pope is a favorite of his (“pray tell, Sir, whose dog are you?”), he enjoys the Graveyard Poets and their imagery of humans in terror of the dead and ghosts, its a feeling that he can’t experience anymore by vicariously. He doesn’t miss the fears of mortality though so he doesn’t have much patience with Poe, save for a handful of French translations of his work. Also enjoys Elliot’s sense of ennui.
Marius: Dante was popular drivel according him during the Roman days, but the longer time passes from the ancient days he grows to admire newer, but well structured verses, ones that focus more on creating a sensation than a narrative. He does have a taste for Rilke, however, and once gifted Armand with a copy of “Letters to a Young Poet”
Armand: Daniel introduced him to the beat poets, whom he has cultivated a great fondness for. Sapho, he reads out of a joy that he is the only one privileged with a copy of her full poems, not just fragments, that he stole from Marius’s library centuries ago, as just one of the rare documents he keeps for his private amusement with refusal to share with the world. He fancies his Theatre of Vampires to be similar to the poem “The Conqueror Worm.”
Daniel: He found a trunk of poems from the 50’s in his dad’s junk after he died and he was helping his mother clean the house out so she could downsize. Really, it them that convinced him to hit the road as a writer. One day he swears to himself that he’ll also make it through Erza Pound’s “Cantos” and gives with a grim laugh the remark that “at least thanks to Armand, I’ll have all the time in eternity to finish it”
Tag Archives: poetry
Deleted scene – Only Lovers Left Alive dir. Jim Jarmusch (2014)
This Living Hand
This living hand, now warm and capable
Of earnest grasping, would, if it were cold
And in the icy silence of the tomb,
So haunt thy days and chill thy dreaming nights
That thou wouldst wish thine own heart dry of blood
So in my veins red life might stream again,
And thou be conscience-calmed—see here it is—
I hold it towards you.-John Keats
I will never be okay with the fact that this wasn’t in the film.
*FLEXES FINGERS* THAT POETRY THING IS GONNA TAKE A LOT OF THOUGHT AND A LOT OF WRITING BUT TOMORROW (for real this time) I’M GONNA POST IT BECAUSE THAT SOUNDS FASCINATING AND I LOVE POETRY AND I’M GONNA TALK ABOUT HOW LOUIS LIKES POPE BUT NOT POE, LESTAT LIKES KEATS AND BYRON BUT NOT SHELLEY, AND PANDORA’S GOT A CRUSH ON EDNA MILLAY AND EVERYONE ELSE. DANIEL’S MEH WITH POETS BUT REALLY LIKES JACK KEROAC.
EXCELLENT I KNEW U HAD TO BE SUMMONED LIKE THE ETHEREAL GODDESS OF LITERATURE THAT U ARE. TAKE YOUR TIME.
please accept this bucket of kittens as a down payment.
What kind of poetry do the VC vampires like? Vampires like Lestat, Armand, Louis, and Marius. Or any other vampires you want to add. Which poet are they fans of?
[text from here] [devilsfool helped me w/ this answer]
I am actually a terrible resource for this question bc I… *gasp* do not really ‘get’ a lot of poetry! I only really like a few poets… like Shel Silverstein (he can be very adult and subversive, btw), Dr. Seuss (who tucked the richness of political/other messages into his works), and other “children’s” authors
yes don’t even think of mocking me on that ok i like what i like, and tbh I headcanon that Lestat has a passion for these, too, since he never got bedtime stories with illustrations as a child (and it’s why he read bedtime stories/poetry to Claudia well beyond the time when she could read to herself bc he loved impressing her with acting out the voices).
- HOWEVER. I do love me some Shakespeare, and I think that counts as poetry, and Lestat loves him some Shakespeare, too. That’s canon. He mentions Keats in TOBT as he’s refurbishing the Rue Royale “Ah, wasn’t it the ode by Keats which had inspired that long-ago purchase? Where had the urn gone?” He also mentions Milton in that book. IDK if he read them but he came into possession of a collection of poetry by Wynken de Wilde in MtD.
- Book-IWTV!Lestat is not wild about books of poetry, ditching Louis one night with a cruel little snap: “Read your damn poems, then! Rot!”
- Lestat also considers music lyrics to “count” as poetry and might get all excited about a new track by Kanye West, Eminem or Macklemore. I think he’d be especially drawn to freestyle rap battles.
- Louis quotes from Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, so I would assume he liked (at least at that time) that kind of story/poetry: macabre, dealing with religion v. nature undertones.
- I see Marius as liking the quirky poetry in the New Yorker, and Stan Rice’s free-form style, as he likes to study emerging trends in thoughts.
- David Talbot likes Blake, the Tyger features in his… trajectory, shall we say.
…The rest I leave up to annabellioncourt,
devilsfool, fyeahgothicromance, gothiccharmschool, and duendology, who are probably better resources on this topic. Oh, and of course, anyone else who sees this and has an opinion please feel free to reblog/comment ;D
The words Mentalist fans have playing over and over in their heads.
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
i never understood
what made your lips on my NECK
such an i n t i m a t e affair
until your teeth grazed my pulse
and i realized
you could TEAR open my t h r o a t
and make me b l e e d out in your arms
but instead
you CHOSE to K I S S
Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.
Anne Rice – Interview With The Vampire (via rhapsodyenmauve)
I just got caught crying in the library
I thought I had read all of Keats’ work, as my version of his poems is “the collected” but I found a 700 page book called “complete poems” and there were so many I never hear of and I started crying and a librarian asked me if I was okay.
The sensory description of Paris
“In the period of which we speak, there reigned in the cities a stench barely conceivable to us modern men and women. The streets stank of manure, the courtyards of urine, the stairwells stank of mouldering wood and rat droppings, the kitchens of spoiled cabbage and mutton fat; the unaired parlours stank of stale dust, the bedrooms of greasy sheets, damp featherbeds, and the pungently sweet aroma of chamber pots. The stench of sulphur rose from the chimneys, the stench of caustic lyes from the tanneries, and from the slaughterhouses came the stench of congealed blood. People stank of sweat and unwashed clothes; from their mouths came the stench of rotting teeth, from their bellies that of onions, and from their bodies, if they were no longer very young, came the stench of rancid cheese and sour milk and tumorous disease. The rivers stank, the marketplaces stank, the churches stank, it stank beneath the bridges and in the palaces. The peasant stank as did the priest, the apprentice as did his master’s wife, the whole of the aristocracy stank, even the king himself stank, stank like a rank lion, and the queen like an old goat, summer and winter. For in the eighteenth century there was nothing to hinder bacteria busy at decomposition, and so there was no human activity, either constructive or destructive, no manifestation of germinating or decaying life that was not accompanied by stench.
And of course the stench was foulest in Paris, for Paris was the largest city of France. And in turn there was a spot in Paris under the sway of a particularly fiendish stench: between the rue aux Fers and the rue de la Ferronnerie, the Cimetiere des Innocents to be exact. For eight hundred years the dead had been brought here from the Hotel–Dieu and from the surrounding parish churches, for eight hundred years, day in, day out, corpses by the dozens had been carted here and tossed into long ditches, stacked bone upon bone for eight hundred years in the tombs and charnel houses. Only later–on the eve of the Revolution, after several of the grave pits had caved in and the stench had driven the swollen graveyard’s neighbours to more than mere protest and to actual insurrection–was it finally closed and abandoned. Millions of bones and skulls were shovelled into the catacombs of Montmartre and in its place a food market was erected.”
~Patrick Süskind “The Perfume. The Story of a Murderer”
even the king himself stank, stank like a rank lion
^poetry
I-want-my-IWTV 