Lady Of Dead Leaves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lady Of Dead Leaves

 

 

 

Beneath a dead leaf my love lies hidden

with a rose pearl and a starling's feather

where the dark forest unties Her ribbons

 

where night rides as black as robber's leather

with a bagful of moon's most starving hours

in a forest where leaves are falling forever,

 

whose balefires paint meteoric showers,

whose pale sprites teach old lovers to dance

and sew up their wounds with threads of flowers.

 

For grape never saw the wine She decants,

a vintage that ripens with dissolution

aged in a song, sealed with ash and chance.

 

Under the starlight's silver infusion

asleep as a bee in the fading thunder,

 which is volition and which illusion

 

when all that's left of life is to wonder

or lift the leaf that love is under.

 

 

 

October 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

posted for earthweal

where I am pleased to host this week's challenge,

First Poems: Door to the Wilder Eye

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Fairy Dance, © Arthur Rackham    Public Domain

Spring Beauty © Andrew Wyeth         Fair Use

The Departing

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Departing

 

 

They met in meadowsweet and rue

when the moon began to sicken

when her breath began to thicken

when the golden note was stricken

from the songbird-ingenue.

 

The melancholy flies

buzzed the compass that was broken

ate the opium, her token

for a malady unspoken,

her copper curse of cries,

her pomegranate skies.

 

He held her hand again

though the remedy was shattered,

though all was lost that mattered,

tho someone's blood still splattered

as the now replaced the then

and the hand let go the pen.

 

All in white she'll be

when they walk to their last wedding,

when they meet what they've been dreading.

When last lustre becomes a leaden

shroud above the sea, there'll be

 only he.

 

 

 

 October 2021

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a second effort for Fireblossom

at The Sunday Muse

Note: This poem was written with the aid of a word list I culled from Poe's The Fall of the House of Usher:

 

compass

lustre

pomegranate

shroud

rue

remedy

malady

melancholy

copper

opium eater

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Image via Sunday Muse, attribution unknown, Fair Use

Flash Fiction 55 Special April Edition #2

Since April is still poetry month as long as there are poets to celebrate it, here is the second special April edition of the 55 for all who are still valiantly writing daily, or for those who just wish to practice the form. Grab your pen, your paper, your keyboard, your crayons or whatever suits your fancy, and write 55 words, no more, no less, of poetry, prose-poetry or flash fiction, and post the link to your results in the comments below.

The prompt will be live from Friday midnight to Sunday at 4 PM.

~*~

Here is my 55:

Masque

"..and Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.”
― Edgar Allen Poe

You, two

beats behind the living morning.

I, the rusted

 cutthroat knife flower.

You, in

 the scorpion cave torn, and

I,

anchoress in the black bower.

We dance

a chanted nightmare leaking fire

masked with

green locusts buzzing desire.

Outside, we

think the red death passes blind

these chambers

where our bones will rest entwined.

April 2020







with a nod to Imaginary Gardens with Real ToadsFriday April 10 Play it Again: Odilon Redon

Image: Photo, author unknown   via internet   Fair Use

The Masque of The Red Death, © Odilon Redon, 1883  Public Domain

In Honor Of The Season

Ulalume

by Edgar Allan Poe

The skies they were ashen and sober;

      The leaves they were crispéd and sere—

      The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October

      Of my most immemorial year;

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

      In the misty mid region of Weir—

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—

      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic

      As the scoriac rivers that roll—

      As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

      In the ultimate climes of the pole—

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

      In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—

      Our memories were treacherous and sere—

For we knew not the month was October,

      And we marked not the night of the year—

      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber—

      (Though once we had journeyed down here)—

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent

      And star-dials pointed to morn—

      As the star-dials hinted of morn—

At the end of our path a liquescent

      And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent

      Arose with a duplicate horn—

Astarte's bediamonded crescent

      Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:

      She rolls through an ether of sighs—

      She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

      These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion

      To point us the path to the skies—

      To the Lethean peace of the skies—

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

      To shine on us with her bright eyes—

Come up through the lair of the Lion,

      With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

      Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust—

      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—

Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

      Wings till they trailed in the dust—

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

      Plumes till they trailed in the dust—

      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:

      Let us on by this tremulous light!

      Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sybilic splendor is beaming

      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—

      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

      And be sure it will lead us aright—

We safely may trust to a gleaming

      That cannot but guide us aright,

      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

      And tempted her out of her gloom—

      And conquered her scruples and gloom:

And we passed to the end of the vista,

      But were stopped by the door of a tomb—

      By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,

      On the door of this legended tomb?"

      She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—

      'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—

      As the leaves that were withering and sere,

And I cried—"It was surely October

      On this very night of last year

      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—

      That I brought a dread burden down here—

      On this night of all nights in the year,

      Oh, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—

      This misty mid region of Weir—

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it

      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—

      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—

To bar up our way and to ban it

      From the secret that lies in these wolds—

      From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—

Had drawn up the spectre of a planet

      From the limbo of lunary souls—

This sinfully scintillant planet

      From the Hell of the planetary souls?"

 My favorite seasonal poem by Edgar Allan Poe, published here many times, but for me it never gets old. Best All Hallows wishes to all.

Images: Cemetery statuary, via the internet

October Begins With Poe

Edgar Allan Poe, by Aubrey Beardsley

 Ulalume,  A Ballad

By Edgar Allan Poe

 

 

The skies they were ashen and sober;

      The leaves they were crispéd and sere—

      The leaves they were withering and sere;

It was night in the lonesome October

      Of my most immemorial year;

It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,

      In the misty mid region of Weir—

It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,

      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul—

      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.

These were days when my heart was volcanic

      As the scoriac rivers that roll—

      As the lavas that restlessly roll

Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek

      In the ultimate climes of the pole—

That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek

      In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,

      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere—

      Our memories were treacherous and sere—

For we knew not the month was October,

      And we marked not the night of the year—

      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)

We noted not the dim lake of Auber—

      (Though once we had journeyed down here)—

We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,

      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent

      And star-dials pointed to morn—

      As the star-dials hinted of morn—

At the end of our path a liquescent

      And nebulous lustre was born,

Out of which a miraculous crescent

      Arose with a duplicate horn—

Astarte's bediamonded crescent

      Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:

      She rolls through an ether of sighs—

      She revels in a region of sighs:

She has seen that the tears are not dry on

      These cheeks, where the worm never dies,

And has come past the stars of the Lion

      To point us the path to the skies—

      To the Lethean peace of the skies—

Come up, in despite of the Lion,

      To shine on us with her bright eyes—

Come up through the lair of the Lion,

      With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,

      Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust—

      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:—

Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!

      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."

In terror she spoke, letting sink her

      Wings till they trailed in the dust—

In agony sobbed, letting sink her

      Plumes till they trailed in the dust—

      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:

      Let us on by this tremulous light!

      Let us bathe in this crystalline light!

Its Sybilic splendor is beaming

      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:—

      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!

Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,

      And be sure it will lead us aright—

We safely may trust to a gleaming

      That cannot but guide us aright,

      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,

      And tempted her out of her gloom—

      And conquered her scruples and gloom:

And we passed to the end of the vista,

      But were stopped by the door of a tomb—

      By the door of a legended tomb;

And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,

      On the door of this legended tomb?"

      She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume—

      'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober

      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere—

      As the leaves that were withering and sere,

And I cried—"It was surely October

      On this very night of last year

      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here—

      That I brought a dread burden down here—

      On this night of all nights in the year,

      Oh, what demon has tempted me here?

Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber—

      This misty mid region of Weir—

Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber—

      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it

      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls—

      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls—

To bar up our way and to ban it

      From the secret that lies in these wolds—

      From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds—

Had drawn up the spectre of a planet

      From the limbo of lunary souls—

This sinfully scintillant planet

      From the Hell of the planetary souls?" 

 

 

 

Because, it is the first day of October, and October needs to start with Poe. 

 

 

 

Image: Art by Gustave Doré (French, 1832–1883). Illustration for "Donkey-Skin [Peau d’Âne]", a fairytale by Charles Perrault that appeared in his "Histoires ou contes du temps passé," 1697.

 

 

Nevermaiouw

Nevermaiouw

or, How the Raven Met Cattriona

with apologies to E.A.P.

Once upon a dismal Friday as I gazed out on the skyway

dripping fitful raindrops highly irking to my fur,

as I nodded, moistly napping, suddenly there came a crapping

from a feathered menace flapping, hovering in the dusky blur.

'Tis some noisome pigeon,' said I, 'perched upon the entrance door.

Only this and nothing more.'

Ah, distinctly I could spy it, murdering my peaceful quiet,

it was useless to deny that bird that leered down from the door;

as I watched it puff and flutter, black as ink and slick as butter,

softly I began to mutter, 'this is nothing but a gutter starling fed on rotten store,

just a starling garbage-fattened, hanging on the entrance door.

This it is and nothing more.'

But suddenly there came a squawking, as if the monstrous thing were talking,

a devilish and infernal cawking,  a stalking once I'd seen before

from a creature long-forgotten, with a tongue my Master taught on

many a sleepless midnight fraught to speak out misbegotten lore.

Twas the thrice damned noxious Raven with his prate of 'Nevermore"

that woke me, angered to my core.

He did not come to grant me wishes with a beak o'erfull with fishes,

or cook me liver so delicious that I swooned upon the floor--

No! he set my tail a-lashing, and my pointed teeth a-gnashing

with his ever-constant trashing of the entrance door--

obliviously besplattering, while for treats he did implore,

treats Mine Alone for evermore.

Never, swore I, would he triumph, play the monarch or the pontiff

ruling me with caw and quantive statements from the entrance door.

So low I crouched upon the railing, and as he his tail was trailing,

did I pounce upon his failing body as I spilled its gore;

squawking yet he tumbled sailing, down before the open door.

This I saw and nothing more.

As he lay there feebly twitching, I scratched my ear, for it was itching---

and the Raven he went pitching wildly 'cross the chamber floor.

Like the Rabbit ran from Alice, to the pallid bust of Pallas

limped the vandal of our palace that I knocked down with a claw.

As finally then a silence placid fell upon that bird most foul, 

quoth I the Kitty, 'Nevermiaouw!"

~October 2014

posted belatedly for    real toads

Kerry's Challenge: If only they could talk

Thanks to Fireblossom for leading the way with her poem describing the funeral oration of Dog Antony,  the premise of which I have shamelessly transplanted here in hedgewitchian soil.  
Kerry, in her rendition of Dylan Thomas's dog's final wishes, takes this concept beyond pastiche and into pure poetry, but here I have played for laughs.

Edgar Allan Poe is said to have had a cat named Cattriona, and I chose this pairing for my poem in part to mark the anniversary of Poe's death at age 39 on October 7, 1849. The inspiration for it however, comes directly from Kerry O'Connor's prompt, and any Raven involved is purely a product of Poe's imagination. No actual ravens were harmed in the production of this piece.

Top image: Cat Catching a Bird, 1939, by Pablo Picasso.

Fair use via wikiart,org

Footer: Image courtesy of google image search

copyright unknown, no infringement intended.