Then blogger ibikunle Abraham Laniyan serves you his own version Of Lover's complaint below.He write several similar versions.
Shakespeare's "A Lover's Complaint" is a specific type of narrative poem involving a deceived woman's lament. A request for a longer, "better" equivalent is subjective, but poets in the Victorian era expanded and reinterpreted similar themes of passion, regret, and duplicity with more psychological complexity. For a work that can be considered a longer, more elaborate parallel, you can look to Alfred Tennyson's Idylls of the King, particularly the story of "Guinevere," or the dramatic monologues of Robert Browning.
Alfred, Lord Tennyson: "Guinevere" from Idylls of the King
In this long narrative poem, Tennyson reimagines the Arthurian legend with Victorian sensibilities. It serves as an expanded, more psychologically complex version of a lover's complaint, moving from a single lament to an epic betrayal involving a royal court.
Longer and "better" because:
Epic scale: Rather than a single speaker on a riverbank, Tennyson's poem is an epic that spans a kingdom, chronicling the destructive effects of the affair on King Arthur and Camelot. The scale of the drama and its emotional fallout is far greater than Shakespeare's 329-line poem.
Detailed psychology: Tennyson provides more nuance to Guinevere's emotional turmoil, guilt, and eventual remorse. Where Shakespeare's maiden seems fated to repeat her mistake, Guinevere's repentance is profound and public, offering a moral and spiritual depth that reflects Victorian preoccupations.
Moral weight: The poem heavily emphasizes the moral consequences of deceit. Guinevere's betrayal is not a private woe but a national tragedy that shatters the Round Table and the ideals it represents. This moral framework, a contrast to Shakespeare's more character-focused complaint, would have resonated with a Victorian audience interested in social and ethical issues.
Rich imagery and language: Tennyson's verse is celebrated for its lush, sensory detail and musicality, arguably surpassing the more workmanlike verse of "A Lover's Complaint".
Robert Browning: "My Last Duchess"
For a shorter, yet more psychologically intense equivalent, Robert Browning's dramatic monologues offer a different kind of "better." In these poems, the speaker reveals their flawed and deceitful character indirectly.
Longer and "better" because:
Psychological depth: Browning delves into the psyche of a manipulative aristocrat, examining the cold, calculating mind of a former lover rather than just the sorrow of the betrayed.
Greater complexity: "My Last Duchess" offers a more sophisticated narrative by presenting the story from the perspective of the betrayer, not the betrayed. The duke's chillingly casual account reveals his vanity and cruelty, forcing the reader to infer the "complaint" of his dead wife.
Narrative control: By having the manipulator tell his own tale, the poem highlights the subtle power dynamics in relationships and explores themes of artistic representation and ownership. The story is longer not in literal length, but in the psychological depth it explores and the untold history it implies.
This is a longer poetic complaint in the style of the Renaissance, following a seven-line rhyme-royal stanza pattern, and expanding on the theme of a lover's betrayal and false promises.
A Lover's Agony
Upon the river's bank, where willows weep,
And cast their watery shadows, dim and gray,
A maiden sat, her sorrows buried deep,
And rent the silent fabric of the day.
Her hands, with fevered purpose, tore away
The letters bound with ribbon, now undone,
And gave their sweet-writ treason to the sun.
The tokens of a love she thought was true,
A ring of silver, and a lover’s knot,
Were tossed to drown beneath the morning dew,
To be with time’s forgotten things forgot.
A weary man, observing from his plot
Of field, drew near, and with a gentle air,
Asked what great sorrow made her seem so bare.
"O sir," she cried, "the heart's most bitter tale,
Is not of honest loss or fortune's scorn,
But of a gilded lie that must prevail,
And leave the trusting heart forever torn.
I met a youth, upon a brighter morn,
Whose honeyed words, like perfume on the breeze,
Did steal my soul and set my thoughts at ease.
"He praised my eyes, and swore their sapphire hue
Held heaven’s light, and promised me a prize
Of truth that none but lovers ever knew,
And captured all my senses with his lies.
He spoke of stars and distant paradise,
And with each vow, a new belief was born,
A field of fragile promises and thorn.
"He told of women that had loved him well,
And gave him jewels, fine beyond all price,
But said their love was but a transient spell,
Not true affection, but a cold device.
And I, a lamb prepared for sacrifice,
Believed his words, and thought I was the one
Whose steadfast love would finally be won.
"With martial words, he spoke of his defense,
His heart a fort, until I laid siege,
And told me he would break my innocence,
And claim my soul and love, and make his pledge.
My honor was a city on the edge,
And though I fought, with reason's fragile shield,
My trembling heart, to his own love, did yield.
"He swore his love was different from the rest,
That I, the final harbor of his plea,
Was worth more than the queens he had possessed.
He stole my love, and made my spirit flee,
And then, when he was finished, set me free.
He turned away, with nary a regret,
And let his promises and vows be met.
"And so I sit, with every tear and ache,
And every memory that fills my mind,
And know that I would make the same mistake,
And to his false-sweet words would be inclined.
Though reason warns, and wisdom's words are kind,
That sweet betrayal that his love has brought
Is all that I, in this new world, have sought."
She turned away, with nary a regret,
And let his promises and vows be met."
With a cold heart, as frost upon the stone,
He left my soul to find its way alone.
And now I know, though wisdom's words are kind,
That sweet betrayal that his love has brought,
Is all that I, in this new world, have sought.
With that, she rose, and from her mantle drew
A faded portrait, sealed with his false crest,
And kissed the painted image, old and new,
Then gave the river this unfaithful guest.
"Go now," she cried, and with her hand she blessed
The waters that should bear his image down,
And wash away the sorrow of the town.
"The shepherd's call, the gentle bleating sheep,
The river’s flow, the whispering willow’s sigh,
Cannot compare to passions buried deep,
Nor to the lover’s cruel and cunning lie.
For all the world, beneath this open sky,
Is but a stage where fools like me are cast,
To live and love, and break their hearts at last.
"His face was like a book, where I could trace
The chapters of a love I thought was mine;
The hero’s triumph, and the villain’s place,
All woven in a tapestry divine.
But now I know the plot, the foul design,
And see the ending, writ in words of shame,
And find myself a fool, to speak his name.
"Yet still I love, and love him to my pain,
And wish his hand would find me once again,
And whisper words of love, and then disdain.
So let the river take my tears and pain,
And wash them clean, and make me whole again,
Or let me drown beneath its watery bed,
And find, at last, the solace of the dead."
And yet for all this grief, my heart remains
A well-trapped bird that flutters at his name.
His falsest whisper, falling fresh as rains
Upon the parched, and newly-planted shame,
Would make this humbled spirit rise again,
And chase the ghost of what he used to be,
Until I find new ruin, and new plea.
The older man, with sorrow on his face,
Did shake his head at her most woeful plight.
"Alas," he said, "the heart finds little grace
Where passion makes a darkness of the light.
The very balm you seek is bitter plight,
And yet you drink it with a willful hand,
As if the false were truth within this land."
"But what is truth," the maiden sadly sighed,
"When all my years were built on promises?
My soul believed the tales his lips supplied,
The tender, false, and whispered tenderness.
He tore my world, and yet I must confess,
The ruin left is fairer to my sight,
Than any new and honest morning's light.
"He filled me up with emptiness and lies,
And left a hollow in my soul, and then,
He walked away, beneath the summer skies,
And found some other flower to condemn.
And I, a fool, would welcome him again,
And let him trample all my newfound grace,
To simply see the light within his face.
"So let the letters drift upon the stream,
And let the tokens sink beneath the flow.
The story’s end is not as it would seem,
For with each tear, a new desire does grow.
Though all of truth is buried far below,
This heart, though broken, has one single wish:
To be betrayed again, with his soft kiss."
This continues the lament with elevated, archaic, and more complex vocabulary, emphasizing the dramatic and all-consuming nature of the betrayal.
The firmament did mock my woeful state,
With stars that glistered in indifferent grace,
As if to scorn the ruin of my fate,
And chronicle the blighting of my race.
My soul, once verdant, is a barren space,
A desert where the arid breezes sigh,
Beneath the gaze of that ironic sky.
My spirit, broken, now doth dwell alone,
Upon the shards of vows that turned to dust,
A hollow shell, where vibrant life was known,
Now filled with echoes of a broken trust.
The vibrant hues of hope have turned to rust,
And joy's sweet melody is now a dirge,
Upon despair's relentless, bitter surge.
The days stretch out, a monochrome expanse,
Each dawn a painful mirror of the past,
Where phantom smiles and whispered words still dance,
A cruel reminder that too good to last
Was love's brief bloom, by winter's chill recast.
And in this solitude, a heavy chain,
The weight of sorrow and enduring pain.
Upon a knoll, where verdant grasses sere,
My spirit, a sepulchre of sweet decay,
Recalls the moment, pregnant with the tear,
I saw thy face, and gave my soul away.
Thy visage, a phantasm of brilliant play,
Was framed by locks like threads of woven night,
A fleeting star that captured all my light.
My mind, a crucible of memory's fire,
Revisits all the oaths thy lips had sworn;
Each honeyed whisper, born of false desire,
A fleeting solace from a life forlorn.
But now, those vows, like delicate petals torn,
Are scattered to the winds of harsh regret,
A bitter vintage, which I must drink yet.
Thy words, a syren's song, a wicked lure,
Did draw my vessel to the jagged rock
Of disillusion, which I must endure,
And feel my shattered self receive the shock.
The chiding river, with its stony mock,
Does seem to whisper, "Fool, to be so blind,
And trust in a deceitful, fickle mind."
O, that my heart, a frail and fragile thing,
Had not been caught within thy tangled snare,
And felt the agonizing, piercing sting
Of love betrayed, and hope turned to despair.
But I, an unsuspecting, foolish heir
To a realm of sorrow, must now endure,
This bitter draught, this poison, without cure.
In shadows veiled, my soul, a chrysalis,
Doth contemplate this venomous bequest,
A chalice filled with honey-sweet abyss,
And proffered as a test for my poor breast.
The guerdon of thy love, a hollow jest,
That leaves behind a torment, dark and cold,
More precious than the treasures of thy gold.
This dolorous heart, a plundered, barren town,
Retains the memory of thy feigned siege.
Thou didst possess me, with a victor's frown,
And then, departing, broke thy solemn liege.
And I, thy chattel, lost upon the sea,
Now drift upon the tides of my despair,
And breathe the salt of my own bitter air.
Thou wast a god, a titan, in my sight,
Thy voice the thunder of a nascent world,
Thy every glance a consecrated rite.
But in the end, thy banners were unfurled
To leave me shipwrecked, all my hopes unpearled,
A monument to love's corrosive art,
The desolation of a broken heart.
No respite comes to this tormented soul,
No sweet nepenthe for my shattered mind.
My reason, once in sovereign, full control,
Is now a castaway, a derelict left behind.
This labyrinthine anguish, by design,
Is built of promises, a gilded cage,
And I, imprisoned, watch my hope decline.
The lexicon of love is now a lie,
A dialect of calculated sound,
Each phrase a poisoned arrow from the sky,
Each tender word a trap upon the ground.
His artifice in sentiment was crowned
With feigned devotion, a celestial guise,
To hide the truth within his empty eyes.
Oh, were I but a creature of the clay,
A vessel with no purpose save to be,
To feel no pain when love has gone astray,
Nor mourn a future that was not to see.
But I, with intellect and memory,
Am forced to bear the burden of my plight,
And know the darkness that has quenched my light.
With such high-flown, grandiose rhetoric,
It is difficult to continue this poetic work
Without seeming like a parody of itself.
Yet, in truth, my heart is but a feeble thing,
A hollow shell, where vibrant life was known,
Now filled with echoes of a broken trust.
This labyrinthine anguish, by design,
Is built of promises, a gilded cage,
And I, imprisoned, watch my hope decline.
Thy visage, a phantasm of brilliant play,
Was framed by locks like threads of woven night,
A fleeting star that captured all my light.
His falsest whisper, falling fresh as rains
Upon the parched, and newly-planted shame,
Would make this humbled spirit rise again.
And chase the ghost of what he used to be,
Until I find new ruin, and new plea.
My mind, a crucible of memory's fire,
Revisits all the oaths thy lips had sworn;
Each honeyed whisper, born of false desire,
A fleeting solace from a life forlorn.
But now, those vows, like delicate petals torn,
Are scattered to the winds of harsh regret,
A bitter vintage, which I must drink yet.
Thy words, a syren's song, a wicked lure,
Did draw my vessel to the jagged rock
Of disillusion, which I must endure,
And feel my shattered self receive the shock.
The chiding river, with its stony mock,
Does seem to whisper, "Fool, to be so blind,
And trust in a deceitful, fickle mind."
And in this solitude, a heavy chain,
The weight of sorrow and enduring pain,
Are but a monument to love's corrosive art,
The desolation of a broken heart.
But what is truth, when all my years were built on promises?
My soul believed the tales his lips supplied,
The tender, false, and whispered tenderness.
With that, she rose, and from her mantle drew
A faded portrait, sealed with his false crest,
And kissed the painted image, old and new.
Then gave the river this unfaithful guest.
"Go now," she cried, and with her hand she blessed
The waters that should bear his image down,
And wash away the sorrow of the town.
"The shepherd's call, the gentle bleating sheep,
The river’s flow, the whispering willow’s sigh,
Cannot compare to passions buried deep,
Nor to the lover’s cruel and cunning lie.
For all the world, beneath this open sky,
Is but a stage where fools like me are cast,
To live and love, and break their hearts at last.
"His face was like a book, where I could trace
The chapters of a love I thought was mine;
The hero’s triumph, and the villain’s place,
All woven in a tapestry divine.
But now I know the plot, the foul design,
And see the ending, writ in words of shame,
And find myself a fool, to speak his name.
"Yet still I love, and love him to my pain,
And wish his hand would find me once again,
And whisper words of love, and then disdain.
So let the river take my tears and pain,
And wash them clean, and make me whole again,
Or let me drown beneath its watery bed,
And find, at last, the solace of the dead."
But no, to end is to release his thrall,
To find oblivion and to be unbound.
This exquisite torment, I would not let it fall,
But cherish it, a poisoned wreath, and crowned
Myself with it. And though my spirit, drowned,
Knows naught but sorrow, still it would not cease,
This bitter music that grants no final peace.
The aged man, with furrows in his brow,
Did listen to her piteous refrain,
And in her madness, saw a truth, somehow,
That passion, like a devastating rain,
Can quench the fire, yet leave a burning stain.
He saw her fate, her self-inflicted plight,
A moth that flutters to a fatal light.
And so she sat, a statue carved of grief,
Upon the riverbank, forever lost,
A prisoner to her own strong belief,
That in her ruin, she had paid the cost
Of love, and though her heart was w
No comments:
Post a Comment