Welcome!
There is a Victorian road I can always find,
even in a strange land.
--Emily Isaacson
This is one of my favourite paintings by Waterhouse.
It is called The Shrine.
Painting by J.W. Waterhouse (1898) Image used by permission of the Hopkins Collection.
The Fleur-de-lis Republished
The Fleur-de-lis, a document by woman poet Emily Isaacson, was born from the confines of her imprisonment, producing over 800 poems in both English and French. Hailed as a mystic, her free-verse poetry astounded critics, earning her recognition as a distinguished figure in Canadian literature, with The Fleur-de-lis being likened to a royal bouquet that has traversed the borders to England.
Crafted for a prince, the collection now stands as a regal compilation in one volume, bearing the authentic words and personal seal of its enigmatic creator. Isaacson's poems, akin to mini speeches, manage to forge an intimate connection with readers. The fleur-de-lis, her enduring symbol, becomes a powerful metaphor for valour, standing resolute against the challenges she faced. The poems, whose recipients have been recluses, monks, and ministers, resonate in convents but face rejection in churches. The dichotomy of her gift, viewed by some as divine and others as witchcraft, only adds layers to the mystique surrounding Isaacson's work.
As history approached the conclusion of the Queen's era, the Royal Rose, Isaacson's poems transcended their temporal origins, becoming timeless expressions that would uplift and resonate with readers. Her legacy endures, casting her as the Queen of distant lands and closer hearts, leaving an indelible call through the corridors of time and offering a beacon of hope for next generations.
Paperback $59.99 CAD
Emily Quote . . .
I took up my favored pen,
and the meter of the salt roar,
the splendid gathering of stony shells
and aged driftwood
splashed off the pages
of the handmade paper, enameled
with rose blossoms and leaves,
for the retrieving of countries
almost lost
in the density of ocean,
for the salve of a wound time has marred.
Emily Isaacson, A Familiar Shore