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And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows, see
Vast forms that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;--- E.A. Poe
The haunting shadows of unwanted thoughts
creep from corner to corner,
playing tricks on the unsuspecting eye---Jamie Edson Opielski
I have a kind of halloween mask
Which I am afraid to put on.---U.S. Poet Laureate Robert Pinsky
Tisn't too cool for a bonfire,
come join me round the fire pit
with a mug of warmed cider and a homemade doughnut
for some poetic tales.
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Amazon's Price: $ 13.99
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I offer a few snippets from the vast array of poetry about this oft misunderstood time of year-perhaps you'll discover something new or find an old favorite...either perhaps prompting you to delve further into the works of these exemplary poets!
Robert Burns wrote his famous poem
showing the intermixing of Celtic and Christian beliefs, how they mingled and lingered,
Upon that night, when fairies light
On Cassilis Downans dance,
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze,
On sprightly coursers prance;
Or for Colean the route is ta'en,
Beneath the moon's pale beams;
There, up the cove, to stray and rove,
Among the rocks and streams
To sport that night.
Shakespeare fed us his archetypal recipe for spells and enchantments.
All:
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and cauldron bubble.
Second Witch:
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the cauldron boil and bake;
Eye of newt, and toe of frog,
Wool of bat, and tongue of dog,
Adder’s fork, and blind-worm’s sting,
Lizard’s leg, and howlet’s wing,
For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and bubble.
Edgar Allan Poe gives us a glimpse of his 'Haunted Palace' in
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out forever
And laugh- but smile no more.
and Christina Rossetti takes us through her 'Goblin Market.'
Laughed every goblin
When they spied her peeping:
Came towards her hobbling,
Flying, running, leaping,
Puffing and blowing,
Chuckling, clapping, crowing,
Clucking and gobbling,
Mopping and mowing,
Full of airs and graces,
Pulling wry faces,
Demure grimaces,
Cat-like and rat-like,
Ratel and wombat-like,
Snail-paced in a hurry,
Parrot-voiced and whistler,
Helter-skelter, hurry-skurry,
Chattering like magpies,
Fluttering like pigeons,
Gliding like fishes... --
Seems there has ever been a fascination...whether Druidic or Christian about the time of year when souls and goblins flew,and when doors opened between our worlds of understanding and mystery. From 'The Song of the Oak' by
G.K. Chesterton we daringly view the Druid's Dance...
The Druids waved their golden knives
And danced around the Oak
WHen they had sacrificed a man;
But though the learned search and scan
No single modern person can
Entirely see the joke.
But though they cut the throats of men
They cut not down the tree,
And from the blood the saplings spring
Of oak-woods yet to be.
But Ivywood, Lord Ivywood,
He rots the tree as ivy would,
He clings and crawls as ivy would
About the sacred tree.
These particular poetic examples ring so clear to me because of an experience I had when I was sixteen years old and, as all teens seem to feel, felt as though I would live forever: the state of being 'old' was so very far away. I was just outside of Rome on a vastly over-crowded tour of the Catacombs. I was sure no one would miss me if my flashlight and I slipped beneath a velvet rope and went exploring. I was right. No one missed me. And yes, with all the twisting turns, I got lost. It wasn't until one of my travelmates realized I never made it back to my room that night that anyone thought to check where they thought I'd gone the day before.
Thus I spent a long, very long, night surrounded by the bare bones, disjointed grinning skulls and hollow silence a thousand years below the surface. While I wasn't exactly scared (well, at least not until after the flashlight died) I did seem to spend much of the night contemplating death, dying, and what life must have been like those many eons ago.
The least little sound seemed magnified. My imagination ran amok. My flashlight played over the crypts carved into the walls, where bones lay upon bones upon still more bones. Were these families, I wondered, or strangers deposited atop the less recently departed. Might one end up nestled within the bony clasp of an antecedent or perhaps, sworn enemy? Skulls and bones littered the pathways. In places, skulls were piled by size....small ones here, larger ones over there by the wall. The Catacombs hadn't seemed creepy at all on the tour where torches flared brightly and what we saw was neatly displayed. Here, several levels lower, Shields separated piled bodies and swords were now encased within cages of rib and pelvis.
Trying to retrace my steps, I took yet another wrong turn and slipped on the chalky substance that dusted every surface. I tumbled a few feet setting off an avalanche of bones. I ended up curled in a ball surrounded by skeletal hands pointing at me as my flashlight finally faded and the world went black.....
Much about this time of year...when the harvests are gathered in, when the year is winding down...growing old, dying are often mixed together...and when I think back to that endless night in the Catacombs,,,I often think of Matthew Arnold's 'Growing Old.'
It is last stage of all
When we are frozen up within, and quite
The phantom of ourselves,
To hear the world applaud the hollow ghost
Which blamed the living man.
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I offer some story-telling poetry which reflects this time of the year...
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The wind and sand are seething ‘round.
My skin feels grated raw.
A huge face forms within the gale,
Its mouth a gaping maw.
Perhaps her soldier too
Is made of this self same mist.
From across the moors I brought the winds
to whisper my name at your gate.
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Old leather books and a bright crystal ball,
A cloak of black velvet that hangs in the hall,
Sprinkles of powder on skulls of the dead --
The zookeeper learns how to vanquish Old Ned.
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To begin this spell
Conjure or buy:
Spot of ladybug
Eye of fly
Can't resist adding this...
The old grandmother in the village gravely tells of souls eaten
Here near the crumbled grave, where the stone rots
And the hard dry ground under your feet
Cracks like shattered glass.
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Deep in murky catacombs that cumber
sunlight from shining in the departed eyes,
somebody whispered, not a grave robber.
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The jack-o-lantern spread his mocking jaws
And came at me with witches claws
I closed my eyes and prayed for my soul
Just then the pumpkin swallowed me whole.
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a gutted pumpkin
stripped of its insides
seeds and slimy membrane splattered across the counter
crudely cut face not unlike
a vacant mask
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I haunt this stage both day and night,
no foreigner within this realm.
Languishing in my loneliness,
ripped from family, forsaken by friends,
never again to see the cradle of my birth.
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Poetry: November 07, 2007 Issue [#2051]
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