The grim oak and the yew are watchful, here.
The one declines; the other at its height
Of wildest powers at the nearing time of year,
In this dim light.
Uncommon graves are kept for uncommon sleepers
In their dark earth. The bark and bones of trees
Are branches, hands for stalkers and dream-creepers
Ill at ease,
Wrung like a murderer’s. The moon is with us now,
Among us like our sense of something strange,
Silvered with magic: revealing to us how
In death, all change.
Bring in the season of the fallen fruit.
Bite out its heart, and let the heart’s rich dream
Of nightmares take us. Our senses, once astute,
By weird ways deem;
Though cascades of rich leaves in sunlight charm us
We know that by the evening, come what may,
They fade; by night, in thrall of what might harm us,
All leaves fall grey.
So keep your wits as wily and as keen
As best you can, at the candled dark of night.
Because uncertain things are certain seen
In this half-light.
This is another Frankenstein’s Monster sapphic ode, again with an autumnal bent, but specifically in praise of Halloween. In particular I wanted to reinterpret and stitch together various parts of previous Gothic poems, and focus on the notion of perception: how it changes in darkness, in fear, and so on. Its eyes see things a little differently from ours. As usual, I have sewn in a great deal of internal rhyme into my Monster Ode, to give it strength and motion. I’ve given it murderer’s hands and the pace of a stalker. I have attempted to give it Life. Muahahahahaaaaa.