*For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction

So very much has been written about George Gordon, Lord Byron, and most of it in our modern age is nothing to do with his poetry. Women (usually it is women but maybe some men do it too) go on about how attractive he was, after all his reputation with the ladies was legendary. I could relay fact after fact on here, all copied from various sources, relating to his affairs, culminating of course in the rumours surrounding his affair with his half-sister Augusta Leigh.

It was because of these rumours that Byron suddenly found himself shunned in 'polite' society. He decided to go abroad and I could again cut and paste lots of info here, all interesting and fascinating stuff, but I'm not going to - I leave that to others. I want to talk about his poetry.

Now lots of people give an inward groan when they think of poetry. They read the words on the page and fail to see why some people find it wondrous. But these words are not just meant to be read silently as if they were a book; they are written to be read aloud, as people did in previous centuries and as some of us do still. Don't forget that at the time that poetry was at its greatest (in my opinion it has to be the Romantics),there were not the amusements we have today. A new volume of poetry by a great writer was as exciting as a new Harry Potter book today, - okay, some of you can shoot me down about that - but you get my point.

Byron was a master at writing words that sound marvellous when read aloud. He broke every known rule of rhyme, rhythm and pacing and his style is unique.

The stanza below is from his masterpiece Childe Harold and it is about the night before one of the major battles at Waterloo.; Wellington and his officers were at a ball, not expecting to see any action.

Don't just read it to yourself - say it aloud and with emphasis - it's wonderful:

Did ye not hear it?--No; 'twas but the wind,

Or the car rattling o'er the stony street;

On with the dance! let joy be unconfin'd;

No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet

To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet--

But hark!--that heavy sound breaks in once more,

As if the clouds its echo would repeat;

And nearer, clearer, deadlier than before!

Arm! Arm! it is--it is--the cannon's opening roar!



I must look most odd these days because so much of the time this past month I've sat there, my poetry book in my hand, reading aloud but I never realised poetry could make me so happy - not just any poetry however - most modern poetry doesn't affect my mood. For me the best is undoubtedly Byron - and not because of his aura or image.

*the title is of course from Byron