Vampire poems recording.

See the link below for Youtube vampire poems.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gN2c4IMQGg4

TIME

 

He looked at his gold pocket watch. It, like every clock in his possession,  was set permanently at five minutes to midnight. Then he gazed at the setting sun in the misty sky. Finally,  he inspected the gaping wound across his guts.

"Damn you Time! " he exclaimed.  "YOU HAVE DEFEATED ME YET AGAIN! "

Much earlier. 

A gold pen scribbled across the paper. He loved gold most of all. It was the untarnishable substance, untouchable by Time.

See candle flames dance,

Like the flicker of angel's wings,

Remembering smoke spiraling and

So many long lost things,

As soldiers at the break of dawn,

Waiting for deep darkness to be torn,

And every soldier half in the past,

Half in a future which cannot last.

He put down his pen and drank more coffee. 

Light rain fell on the filthy ground as he finished addressing his men.

"... and remember, time is against us here, so finish your rum and get back to work. "

He was in a foul mood because he had dreamt of Her again. He had dreamt of running through the forest and Time was chasing him. It was sunset and it had always been sunset, and he ran and ran.

He drained his rum and started cleaning his pistol.

Damn you. Time, he thought, over and over again.

Some time later.

The enemy were out there, somewhere amongst the mist and charred stumps of trees. He led his men forward,  blindly, into the wasteland. 

Damn it. It's the wrong time. We are too late. Either the enemy has fled or they have had time to lay an ambush for us. 

We are out of time.

Always, always, out of Time.

They walked forward, silent footsteps muffled by the ash underfoot and the dense, damp air.

He heard the heavy panting of the man behind him. He could almost smell his men's fear. They were not true soldiers,  just men forced into the wrong time and place.

He walked on, trying to stand tall, trying to look confident,  to inspire his men, as though it was not already far too late for that.

A single shot ran out, echoing in the silent mist.

His men started firing aimlessly. They were panicking. 

Damn them. They were not ready for this. It was not their fault. There had not been enough time to train them.

Time had never been on their side.

A few shots turned into a hail of fire. It was a blizzard of bullets. A storm of burning hot lead.

His men were falling dead around him.

He raised his pistol,  tried to aim, but he could not see the enemy.

Nothing but smoke and mist and ash. It had always been this way… smoke and fire forever and ever more.

"Take cover men! Behind the stumps!" he shouted.

There was no time for that. It was too late. They were all gone.

Alone in the chaos he knelt behind what had once been the trunk of a tree. He fired a futile,  forlorn shot into the nightmare.

Then he felt it. A shot ripped through his guts. No pain, not yet. Just an irresistible force, the space where his entrails used to be, and the hot sticky blood everywhere. 

He looked at his gold pocket watch.

It was five minutes to midnight.

Toys Of The Grave.

    (Based on a true story.)

    These days there are many things which I fail to remember, but I shall never forget that little cemetery on Castle Street.

    I'm not sure how I first found it, it was an almost hidden sort of a place, almost invisible from the street. You passed through a tall iron gate with flaking black paint, then through an arch shaped gap in a poorly trimmed hedge, then there it was. A graveyard spread out before you in all its overgrown, crumbling magnificence. Most of the gravestones were over a hundred years old, and none of the stood up at the correct angle. Moss and ivy grew everywhere: nature retaking the dead. Behind an abandoned chapel stood an old Yew tree and beside the graves under that tree was the place where the broken toys were always found..

    The first one, if I recall, was a faded, headless doll. There was a rabbits skull and bits of fur near by.

    At first it was just another oddity in an odd place. like the circle of mushrooms with the egg shells inside, or the friendly, slender black cat, or the nameless graves beside the north wall.

    But the next time I went there, years later and with a lady, on the same grave, amongst the fallen pines and branches of the tree, I found a teddy bear which had been ripped in half. I tried, as you do, to rationalize it.. Perhaps the cat or some other animals had taken it there, but why to that exact place and surely an animal would bury it?

    The next month I returned with the same lady, she liked the cat. There we found a china doll, smashed into fragments.

    I was becoming curious. The next week I returned alone and found a rag doll. It was soaked with rain and its arms were missing. There were wings beside it too, the broken wings of some small bird, maybe a Robin. 

    That night I could not sleep. Curiosity tormented me. I had to know who or what was behind those broken toys. Just before dawn, I decided that I must spend a night in the graveyard to investigate. Only then was I able to get a few hours sleep.

    It was the beginning of winter and so sunset came early. At twilight, I passed though the arch in the hedge and walked through the long grass between the graves. Sat under the Yew, I opened the bag which I had prepared. I took out a glass lamp and lit the candle inside it, then drank from my flask of coffee. The rag doll was at my feet. One of the wings had disappeared.

    That evening was uncomfortable. Clouds hid the moon and stars. The earth was cold and hard beneath me. I was exhausted from lack of sleep the previous night and at points my vision blurred. The headlights of passing cars over the hedge cast twisted shadows amongst the tomb stones and trees. Soon before midnight the cat came to keep me company for a few minutes. Minutes afterwards an owl flew down from the chapel roof and moments later I must have fallen to sleep.

    I tell myself that I must have slept and dreamt.

    I saw... I dreamt... a small figure. A boy, I guess. Short, slender, stooped over, with long, lank hair covering his face. In the candle lights his face was a a featureless blank, but I saw his shinning eyes and the horrid stains on his clothes. In one bony fist he held half of a torn teddy bear, the the other he grasped parts of a mouse.

    They were at my feet when the dawn light woke me.  

    It was then that I understood- he had to break the toys, to make them dead like himself, so they could be with him.

Moments

The world fades around them,
Like a rose without light,

Petals flutter gently down,

Unseen under midnight,

Where have the moments gone?

Will The Earth still recall?

Where did the dreams hide?

Did the stars ever see all?

Like iron in the ocean,

Or silver in the grave,

All shattered forever,

By time's infinite wave.

Certain Truths.

 I

"There are certain truths about the world which, after you experience and accept them, make it impossible to go back to the normal run of life. Those who understand these things are best suited to live nocturnally, or in some distant jungle,  or to go insane… Yet, it was an experience which we survived- which we won."

Those were the first words,  after exchanging greetings and pleasantries, which he said to me.

The tropical sun shone through the wooden, colonial style shutters,  casting warped shadows across the bar. The slight breeze from the antique ceiling fans did little to reduce the oppression of the stale, humid air. I recall there being peanut shells shattered over every surface,  and an ancient parrot caged in one corner.

I could see from the way he was slumped in his chair, and the gaunt look about his face, that he had been overdoing the narcotics recently. 

"Then there is still a bit of fight left in your?" I asked. 

"There is nothing but fight left in me."

I ordered a couple of pale beers and took a seat opposite him. It had been a long journey,  and I knew it was going to be a very long night.  He took a long swig from his beer, then lit his pipe. A sparkle kindled in his eyes, despite the dark bags under them.

"Tell me a story, " I said.

He smiled his lopsided,  broken teeth smile.

"I will tell you a fine story. From back in the day. We lived like kings back then. Barbarian kings! He hailed our pagan gods, we men arm wrestled in our drunkenness and roared our praises to the Gods…" he laughed until he coughed, then continued. "And always, around us, a darkness lurked. A threat which was our fate and our duty. It was a shock to us at first, monstrous, maybe I will tell you about that one day. But it became a habit,  we literally destroyed demons before breakfast,  because they often struck at dawn. You're a young lad, but not green, I see that. Do you know what I'm talking about? "

"Maybe, let's hear a story, "  I said, and I was curious. "Tell me about the first time."

He knocked the ash from his pipe and stared upwards at the last of the smoke spiraling in the air as it drifted out of the window. However, the expression on his face, his mouth narrow and straight like the cut of an axe, made it clear that he was seeing something else, something long ago and far away. 

"OK. .. "he was reluctant. "It was a bad time, my grandparents had passed over, I loved my grandfather more than any other living man. I mourned,  and in my mourning I was weak. In the darkness of night, and in my misery and my exhaustion it struck. I half woke from my bed to hear a terrible knocking on my bedroom door, opening it I saw the enemy.  It was seven feet tall, cloaked in black with hot coals for eyes. I retreated back to bed, hid beneath my blanket and damned it back to hell. I damned it and hated it and feared it with all of my soul. I did not wish to die, I did not wish to be lost. I damned it back to hell, and to hell it returned. Exhausted,  I slept, and when I woke again I knew my role, my fate."

"Is it that easy? To banish a demon?" I asked.

"Sometimes,  but not often. We need purity of purpose,  sometimes only the Gods can give that. I'm embarrassed now, let's have another drink, the night is young."

As is the way in the tropics, the sun had set without a moment's notice and the pub became dim. It was quiet, I recall the sound of the barman walking on peanut shells, and the parrot squawking before he slept.

"You said that it attacked you in your sleep, how can you be sure that you were not dreaming? "I asked.

"How can you be sure that you are not dreaming right now?" He replied. 

I had nothing to say.

"Why did you really come here? You didn't come half way round the world to hear a drunken old man telling stories," he said..

"Perhaps,  perhaps not," I replied. "I need advice,  from  someone with experience."

"I'm in no position to give anyone advice, but I have plenty of experience," he took a long drink from his beer, gazed once more across expanses of space and time, then continued. "There was a girl, let's call her Morgana,  it was not her real name, but it's as real as any other name that she was given.

"Morgana had a friend,  and her friend complained of terrifying and unnatural visions in the night, of sleep paralysis, of waking up exhausted. You know the symptoms. After a few weeks,  his housemates took him seriously. Morgana  (being something of a witch, and something far more) tried to assist him. She cleansed his room with sage, and other blessings. It helped for a few days, but it did not hold back the demon for long. It was then that I offered to help her."

"What did you do?" I asked.

“The usual… A blessed hammer and a runic staff, splashes of holy water, prayers and curses. I called on the Gods- Odin and Thor, I believe. I heard, then felt, the presence of the demon. It was right there on the poor fellow’s bed. Smote it with staff and hammer, and sent it back to Hell. ”

“Did it work?”

“It would not be worth talking about otherwise, would it?”

II

They were sat by a fire in the ruins of the castle. Her castle.

He lay down on the grass and allowed the fumes of the potent herb they smoked to flood his mind. The starry sky melted away to reveal the rafters of the hall of her grandfathers. The bonfire smoke mingled with the tunes of minstrels and the clash of horn cups.

“Fey…” a distant voice spoke in welcome or acknowledgement.

The stout wooden rafters shifted and the summer sky returned. He looked across at her, lying next to him on the grass and smiled.

It had only lasted a moment, but it had been real once.  

I I I

"What do men love most in the world?" He once asked me.

"Beer ? Football ? To ride on the open steep, slaughter enemies and  hear the lamentation of their women, or whatever Conan said," I was not in the mood for games.

"No, it is to make love to beautiful women… because men love beauty and they love to make things. The enemy is the opposite,  they love to destroy and they hate beauty," he corrected me.

I thought about this for a while.

"And a wise man once said,  that we cannot save them all, but we can save the pretty ones," he continued. "It is not true, but it's a nice idea."

I thought about that too. I was becoming a bit critical. 

"Have you ever seen the Icelandic fjords in the twilight? " He asked, oblivious to my impatience. 

"No."

"Nor have I,  but I have seen them reflected in a girl's eyes."

"Why don't you tell me something useful? "I snapped. 

"I have been telling you useful things all night. Try to listen."

I think that the heat and dust was bothering me, because I was very intolerant . 

"You are full of shit," I told him.

He looked at me, and seemed much older, more tired.

"I did not invite you here," he reminded me. "You sought me out.  Take what you will or leave."

It was dark outside. From the windows, I heard voices speaking, whispering and shouting in a dozen foreign languages. I suddenly felt very alone.

I apologised and ordered more gin and tonics. 

"What do men hate most of all?"

"Tell me," I was exhausted,  but needed to see the thing through. 

"Weakness.  The enemy is the opposite,  they love weakness and despise  strength. Thus, we use strength against them."

"Tell me about these girls, you talk plenty  about girls but I see a lonely old man, " I wanted to change the subject and to challenge him.

"There were so many, and all so beautiful and wonderful in their own ways, but…" he stopped.

He looked across the room and I followed his eyes to the terrible shadow that creeped in the corner of the room.

"Why don't you deal with that?" He asked me.

Not a question,  or a challenge,  but a test.

STORMS

In the mighty thunders roar,

You hear the growling voice of Thor,

The rain which, relentlessly, falls,

Are the tears of a billion lost  souls,

The Gods are drunk and insane,

The wheel turns again and again. 

Skulls and Sails.

Gold is in the sunsets, 

And lies we tell in darkness, 

Blood and surf are well met,

Like mates we haven't slain yet,

Sails and skulls are white,

And rum at dawn's alright 

When sun's burning down,

So hot you'd rather drown, 

Tavern girls and stolen gold,

Fade so pale like ivory, 

Pirate lives soon run cold, 

But they live on in infamy. 

Why Did Elizabeth Rossetti Have To Die? Part 2.

Ophelia,  J E Millais,  1952.

Next we shall consider an element of Elizabeth's life which is often neglected : her poetry.

Her poetry,  though sublime,  is haunted by frequent references to death, rejection and unfaithful love. In 'Dead Love', C  1855-1857, she wrote;

"And love was born to an early death,

And is so seldom true."

In 'A Year And A Day', C 1857, she wrote;

"There to die all empty of love,

Like beaten corn of grain,"

This reflects her fears that Dante would reject her in favour of a younger model, and the anxiety which she felt in their relationship. This is understandable for several reasons.  They were married, with out the presence of friends or family, and with only strangers as witnesses,  and he was reluctant to introduce her to his family. In their relationship,  she served primarily as student to his theories and model for his art: a blank slate and a form to be projected upon . Despite being his wife, and even after her death, she was rarely depicted as herself, but instead as some tragic archetype or character from legend. Although the Pre-Raphaelites were not intentionally cruel to her, they were at best thoughtless and at worse dehumanising,  and this must have influenced her state of mind,

Infamously, Dante exhumed her body on the fifth of October 1868 to retrieve a book of his poetry which he had buried with her. This implies , at the least,  a great deal of disrespect.

Her poetry suggests a preoccupation with death, or predictions of her own death. In 'At Last' (1862),  she appears to write about her unborn son, with whom she was pregnant in the year that she died:

"Tell him I died of my great love,
And my dying heart was gay. "

The morbid tone of her writing is hardly surprising considering the poor health and depression which she suffered.  The exact nature of her illness can't now be known for sure, due to the state of health care at the time and the secrecy surrounding her death (suicide being against church doctrine and scandalous). She is thought to have suffered from one or a combination of the following;  tuberculosis,  intestinal disorders, opioid addiction and anorexia. It is know that she was prescribed laudanum after the miscarriage  of her stillborn daughter,  but she may have used it from an earlier date. An eating disorder,  intestinal disorder or loss of appetite from use of opiodes would explain her constant poor health,  and her pale, slender appearance.

Sadly, it was this ghostly , ethereal appearance which Dante and the other Pre-Raphaelites found so appealing.  In every painting she looks pale, malnurished and miserable, which is most likly how she often looked.  Elizabeth looked like the perfect dying Ophelia,  the archetypal tragic heroine. Her illness, and the dignity with which she struggled against it, made her the perfect model to project tragic ideals onto.

Which takes us back to the points made at the beginning of this essay.

What would it be like to be considered more beautiful,  and as a model more valuable,  in poor health than in good health? To be more attractive because one was depressed?

If one lives only to create and inspire beautiful art, and one is considered the most beautiful when was is dying,  then perhaps we can see why Elizabeth Rossetti had to die.

Why Did Elizabeth Rossetti Have to Die?

Beata Beatrix,  Dante Rossetti,  1869.

What would be like to be valued more as an image than a living human? To be a muse first and a lover second ? What value would one place on one's life in a subculture where death is idealised beautifully? 

What would it have been like to have done lived and died as Elizabeth Rossetti? 

Even if you have only a minimal understanding of art, you will have seen her face. The pale, slender neck and sensuous mouth reproduced dozens of times by the artists of the Pre- Raphaelite Brotherhood, most notably by her husband Dante Rossetti. However, you may not know much of her short and miserable life, or that she herself was a talented poet.

Together, we will consider the events and motives leading to her suicide,  at the age of 28, on 1862.

Of her cause of death, there is no reasonable doubt . Overdose of an opioid,  most likely laudanum.  As Jerome H. Buckley wrote in The Pre-Raphaelites :

"She died- ill and neurotic - from a deliberate dose of sedative. "

What is of interest are the details of her short life, the treatment  (and possibly abuse)  of her peers, and her own thoughts - as expressed in her poetry.

We shall begin with a brief summary of her life.

Elizabeth was born into a working class family in 1834. In her teens, she worked as a milliners assistant, where she was "discovered " by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.  They considered her an ideal form of the 'new beauty ' because of her ethereal appearance and dignity.  She began modelling for them, and was also taught to write poetry and to paint. Most famously,  she posed for Ophelia by  J E  Millais in the winter of 1851 to 1852. In the role of the drowned heroine she had to pose in cold bath water and became seriously ill. She became attached to Dante Rossetti and soon posed only for him. They were married in 1860, at which time her health was very poor (to be discussed in depth later). Elizabeth gave birth to a stillborn daughter in 1861 and began suffering from postpartum depression.  Soon after, she was pregnant a second time, but died before giving birth.

To Be Continued ...

A Rose Struggling To Bloom.

She was like a Rose
Who is always dying,
And struggles to bloom:

Not enough water,
Or too much water,
Never enough sunshine.

Eternally Purple (Sonnet for The City )

Ten thousand neon moons glow,
We gaze on eternally purple skies, 
The only stars are in your eyes,
On streets where no dew drops show
A place for a wild flower to grow, 
Perhaps a grey, lonely moth flies 
Through twilight that never dies,
And crimson and gold rivers flow,

In an endless dusk with you,
Amongst beauteous false light, 
Never truly dark, nor truly night,
With forevermore, and nothing to do,
But miss the stars and moon too,
This city just shines too bright.