B. Sven Telander
Return To Charterhouse - Poem by B. Sven Telander
A cornucopia of delightful memories fill my mind when I dwell upon the golden timeframe of that most rewarding chapter of my youth: the fortnight- each day comprised of halcyon moments that dashed so fast, due to the pleasure of those
treasured days- spent at magnificent Charterhouse.
I can scarcely recall how I found that magical place; with its splendid
multifoliate gardens, lustrous acreage of plush grass, gentle horses, proud trees, and
singing streams, only that once there, the option of departure from this place of pristine nuance seemed unworthy of consideration.
In my mind’s eyes, I can still see the stately courtyards of columns and arches,
exquisite marble statuary of a classical nature; horsemen, maidens, cherubic youth, lions and other beasts of the world, shimmering fountains and long blue pools...and the other courtyards with organic columns sculpted as tree trunks with fluid master-
works of phantasmagoric design, abstractions and mythic creatures not of the
The vast house itself; a multi-level, grand and sweeping sprawl of loving handiwork, each wondrous chamber a gallery, those ornate long halls, rooms upon rooms of various size and purpose, balconies, spiral staircases, auditoriums and dining
areas, dancefloors and solariums; perhaps the most exquisite structure yet devised.
It was playground and stage, hosting the most important aspect of the place: a colorful cast of travelers from around the globe; there was romance and laughter, intrigues and creations, and heartbreak and triumph. The environs inspired and lured us all to share its splendor as a nesting haven to partake of its harmony, a sanctuary of joyous union for sojourning spirits from all manner of distant lands. We and the place were an ode to life in all its panoramic manifestations; festivals of music, exotic hallmarks of all forms of performance, forums for all manner of thought; soul and artistry were the breathable, palpable essence of Charterhouse.
So, I must return...but all my efforts to locate it have failed, no map points the way, no travel guide can plan passage, the past memory of how I got there eludes me; I can’t determine which continent, let alone which country, it may be in. Quizzical stares, refutation and implications of falsity or madness greet me when I question others of the whereabouts of Charterhouse. No one knows where. No one believes, but I will return.
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