05-06-2008 | #1 | |||||||||||
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Dark Poetry
I thought I would start a thread about dark poetry. Ligotti has written some of my favorite prose poems: I Have a Special Plan for this World and the Notebook of the Night section in Noctuary. He has also been influenced by the work of Edgar Allan Poe, Charles Baudelaire, and Joseph Payne Brennan, to name a few. Share whatever you like: an individual poem, an excerpt from a longer work, a recommendation for a book of poetry, etc. I will start with one we all know, The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe. This has been my favorite poem since I first read it in the fifth grade.
The Conqueror Worm Lo! 'tis a gala night Within the lonesome latter years! An angel throng, bewinged, bedight In veils, and drowned in tears, Sit in a theatre, to see A play of hopes and fears, While the orchestra breathes fitfully The music of the spheres. Mimes, in the form of God on high, Mutter and mumble low, And hither and thither fly- Mere puppets they, who come and go At bidding of vast formless things That shift the scenery to and fro, Flapping from out their Condor wings Invisible Woe! That motley drama- oh, be sure It shall not be forgot! With its Phantom chased for evermore, By a crowd that seize it not, Through a circle that ever returneth in To the self-same spot, And much of Madness, and more of Sin, And Horror the soul of the plot. But see, amid the mimic rout A crawling shape intrude! A blood-red thing that writhes from out The scenic solitude! It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs The mimes become its food, And seraphs sob at vermin fangs In human gore imbued. Out- out are the lights- out all! And, over each quivering form, The curtain, a funeral pall, Comes down with the rush of a storm, While the angels, all pallid and wan, Uprising, unveiling, affirm That the play is the tragedy, "Man," And its hero the Conqueror Worm. | |||||||||||
Last edited by bendk; 12-21-2010 at 07:03 AM.. |
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05-06-2008 | #2 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
Hey, there's already a site called Dark Poetry. I shoulda guessed or checked first. Oh, well.
http://www.horrormasters.com/Themes/DarkPoetry.htm | |||||||||||
05-06-2008 | #3 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
[h2]DARKNESS[/h2] [h2]George Gordon, Lord Byron[/h2] I had a dream, which was not all a dream. The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space, Rayless, and pathless, and the icy earth Swung blind and blackening in the moonless air; Morn came and went--and came, and brought no day, And men forgot their passions in the dread Of this their desolation; and all hearts Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light: And they did live by watchfires--and the thrones, The palaces of crowned kings--the huts, The habitations of all things which dwell, Were burnt for beacons; cities were consum'd, And men were gather'd round their blazing homes To look once more into each other's face; Happy were those who dwelt within the eye Of the volcanos, and their mountain-torch: A fearful hope was all the world contain'd; Forests were set on fire--but hour by hour They fell and faded--and the crackling trunks Extinguish'd with a crash--and all was black. The brows of men by the despairing light Wore an unearthly aspect, as by fits The flashes fell upon them; some lay down And hid their eyes and wept; and some did rest Their chins upon their clenched hands, and smil'd; And others hurried to and fro, and fed Their funeral piles with fuel, and look'd up With mad disquietude on the dull sky, The pall of a past world; and then again With curses cast them down upon the dust, And gnash'd their teeth and howl'd: the wild birds shriek'd And, terrified, did flutter on the ground, And flap their useless wings; the wildest brutes Came tame and tremulous; and vipers crawl'd And twin'd themselves among the multitude, Hissing, but stingless--they were slain for food. And War, which for a moment was no more, Did glut himself again: a meal was bought With blood, and each sate sullenly apart Gorging himself in gloom: no love was left; All earth was but one thought--and that was death Immediate and inglorious; and the pang Of famine fed upon all entrails--men Died, and their bones were tombless as their flesh; The meagre by the meagre were devour'd, Even dogs assail'd their masters, all save one, And he was faithful to a corse, and kept The birds and beasts and famish'd men at bay, Till hunger clung them, or the dropping dead Lur'd their lank jaws; himself sought out no food, But with a piteous and perpetual moan, And a quick desolate cry, licking the hand Which answer'd not with a caress--he died. The crowd was famish'd by degrees; but two Of an enormous city did survive, And they were enemies: they met beside The dying embers of an altar-place Where had been heap'd a mass of holy things For an unholy usage; they rak'd up, And shivering scrap'd with their cold skeleton hands The feeble ashes, and their feeble breath Blew for a little life, and made a flame Which was a mockery; then they lifted up Their eyes as it grew lighter, and beheld Each other's aspects--saw, and shriek'd, and died-- Even of their mutual hideousness they died, Unknowing who he was upon whose brow Famine had written Fiend. The world was void, The populous and the powerful was a lump, Seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless-- A lump of death--a chaos of hard clay. The rivers, lakes and ocean all stood still, And nothing stirr'd within their silent depths; Ships sailorless lay rotting on the sea, And their masts fell down piecemeal: as they dropp'd They slept on the abyss without a surge-- The waves were dead; the tides were in their grave, The moon, their mistress, had expir'd before; The winds were wither'd in the stagnant air, And the clouds perish'd; Darkness had no need Of aid from them--She was the Universe. | |||||||||||
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05-06-2008 | #4 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
bendk,
Interesting thread. Actually it is only a part of a huge online horror fiction library called "Horror Masters". I used to be addicted to this site 5 years ago, visiting it on a daily basis. A new horror story is uploaded every night. They have some wonderful pieces there, actually some of the best in the genre. It's a bit like a virtual Ash Tree Press (many of these stories are collected in the single author collections they publish). Unfortunately, the printing of their PDF documents is not allowed - unless you know how to unlock them. ;) | |||||||||||
"In my imagination, I have a small apartment in a small town where I live alone and gaze through a window at a wintry landscape." -- TL
Confusio Linguarum - visionary literature, translingualism & bibliophily
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05-06-2008 | #5 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
Next, Please
by Philip Larkin Always too eager for the future, we Pick up bad habits of expectancy. Something is always approaching; every day Till then we say, Watching from a bluff the tiny, clear Sparkling armada of promises draw near. How slow they are! And how much time they waste, Refusing to make haste! Yet still they leave us holding wretched stalks Of disappointment, for, though nothing balks Each big approach, leaning with brasswork prinked, Each rope distinct, Flagged, and the figurehead with golden tits Arching our way, it never anchors; it's No sooner present than it turns to past. Right to the last We think each one will heave to and unload All good into our lives, all we are owed For waiting so devoutly and so long. But we are wrong: Only one ship is seeking us, a black- Sailed unfamiliar, towing at her back A huge and birdless silence. In her wake No waters breed or break. | |||||||||||
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05-06-2008 | #6 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
THE NIGHT DANCES
Sylvia Plath A smile fell in the grass. Irretrievable! And how will your night dances Lose themselves. In mathematics? Such pure leaps and spirals-- Surely they travel The world forever, I shall not entirely Sit emptied of beauties, the gift Of your small breath, the drenched grass Smell of your sleeps, lilies, lilies. Their flesh bears no relation. Cold folds of ego, the calla, And the tiger, embellishing itself-- Spots, and a spread of hot petals. The comets Have such a space to cross, Such coldness, forgetfulness. So your gestures flake off-- Warm and human, then their pink light Bleeding and peeling Through the black amnesias of heaven. Why am I given These lamps, these planets Falling like blessings, like flakes Six-sided, white On my eyes, my lips, my hair Touching and melting. Nowhere. | |||||||||||
"What does it mean to be alive except to court disaster and suffering at every moment?"
Tibet: Carnivals? Ligotti: Ceremonies for initiating children into the cult of the sinister. Tibet: Gas stations? Ligotti: Nothing to say about gas stations as such, although I've always responded to the smell of gasoline as if it were a kind of perfume. |
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05-06-2008 | #7 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
"The Children of Wrath" By Vincent O'Sullivan |<<(o)>>| . Last night I wandered in the Devil's close, Crushed by the aching agony of those Who know strange secrets which they must close. I found him seated in a herbless plain On two large stones, nor with him any train Of courtiers, or throng of souls in pain. Across the muffled sky wild lightning broke, And ever through the air the acrid croak Of ravens fell: then drawing near I spoke. "Almighty Master, thou whose name is feared Throughout the sick world, and whose heart is cheered By suitors, why alone?" The Devil leered. "Look round this land!'" he cried; "let your eyes scan Till they go blind this desert--in its span You shall not find the footprint of a man." I answered: "There is one. Behold! I kneel To whisper shameful things, that I may feel Thy dread praise for the horror I reveal." Then Satan: "Rise! If you would serve me, keep Your sins locked in your heart as herds fold sheep At fall of night: sin silently and deep! "Walk armoured as a saint in open day; Blaspheme me, and the Sacred Office say: My servitors to God the loudest pray. "I love the virtue of the fools who lie Besotted with celestial vanity-- Who think they cannot sin, and shall not die. "To them I ever murmur: 'You do well; The Holy Spirit in your soul doth dwell!' For them I keep alight the fire of Hell.'' I waited: "O Master, thou whose name is feared Throughout the sick world, and whose heart is cheered By suitors, space the people scorched and seared!" ~~~-I<.(o).>I-~~~ | |||||||||||
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05-07-2008 | #8 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
from The City of Dreadful Night by James Thomson
The City is of Night; perchance of Death, But certainly of Night; for never there Can come the lucid morning’s fragrant breath After the dewy dawning’s cold grey air; The moon and stars may shine with scorn or pity; The sun has never visited that city, For it dissolveth in the daylight fair. Dissolveth like a dream of night away; Though present in distempered gloom of thought And deadly weariness of heart all day. But when a dream night after night is brought Throughout a week, and such weeks few or many Recur each year for several years, can any Discern that dream from real life in aught? For life is but a dream whose shapes return, Some frequently, some seldom, some by night And some by day, some night and day: we learn, The while all change and many vanish quite, In their recurrence with recurrent changes A certain seeming order; where this ranges We count things real; such is memory’s might. A river girds the city west and south, The main north channel of a broad lagoon, Regurging with the salt tides from the mouth; Waste marshes shine and glister to the moon For leagues, then moorland black, then stony ridges; Great piers and causeways, many noble bridges, Connect the town and islet suburbs strewn. Upon an easy slope it lies at large, And scarcely overlaps the long curved crest Which swells out two leagues, from the river marge. A trackless wilderness rolls north and west, Savannahs, savage woods, enormous mountains, Bleak uplands, black ravines with torrent fountains; And eastward rolls the shipless sea’s unrest. The city is not ruinous, although Great ruins of an unremembered past, With others of a few short years ago More sad, are found within its precincts vast. The street-lamps always burn; but scarce a casement In house or place front from roof to basement Doth glow or gleam athwart the mirk air cast. The street-lamps burn amidst the baleful glooms, Amidst the soundless solitudes immense Of ranged mansions dark and still as tombs. The silence which benumbs or strains the sense Fulfils with awe the soul’s despair unweeping: Myriads of habitants are ever sleeping, Or dead, or fled from nameless pestilence! Yet as in some necropolis you find Perchance one mourner to a thousand dead, So there; worn faces that look deaf and blind Like tragic masks of stone. With weary tread, Each wrapt in his own doom, they wander, wander, Or sit foredone and desolately ponder Through sleepless hours with heavy drooping head. Mature men chiefly, few in age or youth, A woman rarely, now and then a child: A child! If here the heart turns sick with ruth To see a little one from birth defiled, Or lame or blind, as preordained to languish Through youthless life, think how it bleeds with anguish To meet one erring in that homeless wild. They often murmur to themselves, they speak To one another seldom, for their woe Broods maddening inwardly and scorns to wreak Itself abroad; and if at whiles it grow To frenzy which must rave, none heeds the clamor. Unless there waits some victim of like glamour, To rave in turn, who lends attentive show. The City is of Night, but not of Sleep; There sweet sleep is not for the weary brain; The pitiless hours like years and ages creep, A night seems termless hell. This dreadful strain Of thought and conscious which never ceases, Or which some moments’ stupor but increases, This worse than woe, makes wretches there insane. They leave all hope behind who enter there: One certitude while sane they cannot leave, One anodyne for torture and despair; The certitude of Death, which no reprieve Can put off long; and which divinely tender, But waits the outstretched hand to promptly render That draught whose slumber nothing can bereave. | |||||||||||
"Reality is the shadow of the word." -- Bruno Schulz
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05-07-2008 | #9 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
Another Night by Guiseppe Ungaretti
In this darkness with frozen hands I make out my face I see myself deserted in boundlessness | |||||||||||
"Reality is the shadow of the word." -- Bruno Schulz
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05-07-2008 | #10 | |||||||||||
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Re: Dark Poetry
from Day By Day by Guiseppe Ungaretti
Already autumnal dryness Has sunk into my bones, But, lengthening from shadow, A demented never-ending Radiance arrives: Hidden torment of the sunken Twilight... | |||||||||||
"Reality is the shadow of the word." -- Bruno Schulz
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