Loading ...Day 27 & 28 Contest for My Bloody Vampire - 31 Days of Dark Delights
PLEASE NOTE: This contest and comments are closed. Please join us at the MOTHERLOAD of all contests here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12446
Welcome one and all to day 27 & 28 of our month long bash of bloody goodness.
Today’s contest is easy and fun. The winner will be announced later this week. There are NINETEEN prizes for today! Spread the word!
http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12345
Many of you have asked about the move and unpack. We are 99% moved out of the dollhouse. And 99% unpacked! Wohooo! What I realized is we still have TONS of prizes to give away this month and only a couple of days to do it! SO, I am combining yesterday and today’s contests together.
1. To enter today’s contest all you need to do is: Share your favorite chronically creepy poem with us. It can be written (copy/paste), or a link to a video/audio clip. It can even be a poem you have written!
Here are my contributions
2. Go and comment in Jennifer Rardin’s Release Party today here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12388
3. VOTE in the final round of the 2009 FPAY awards here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12281 LAST CHANCE!
4. RSVP and attend Guest blog, Chat and Contest with author Susan Blexrud here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=11657
5. RSVP and help out Mark Henry for his guest Vlog here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12379
6. Participate in the Carol Nelson Douglas contest here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12354
7. Participate in the Keri Arthur Release Party Contest here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12373
8. Participate in the It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party! for MaryJanice Davidson here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12337
Today’s contest is sponsored by:
1. Harper Collins
1 complete signed Library from Jocleyn Drake. Open to readers worldwide.
2. Bitten by Books We have TWO nice big Bags O’ author Swag for 2 lucky commenters. Open to readers worldwide.
3. Author E. F. Watkins
http://www.efwatkins.com/
1 copy of DANCE WITH THE DRAGON
Open to readers in the US/CAN.
4. Eternal Press
http://www.eternalpress.ca/
The are offering up TWO eBooks of your choice from their backlist of books. 2 Winners. Open to readers worldwide.
5. Author Ashlyn Chase
http://www.ashlynchase.com/
1 signed paperback copy of Vampire Vintage for readers in the US. OR 1 eBook copy of Vampire Vintage and another eBook of hers of your choice for an international winner.
6. Author Nina Pierce
http://www.ninapierce.com
1 eBook copy of Furry, Fluffy & Wild, a wolf shifter anthology from Liquid Silver Books. Open to readers worldwide.
7. All Romance Books
http://www.allromanceebooks.com/
1 eBook copy each of the following
Kissing Orion By Amber Kell
Athena’s Hunger By Bonnie Rose Leigh, Gabriella Bradley
True Mates: Nikolai’s Wolf By Zena Wynn
Her Chosen Wolf By Renee Michaels
Deadly Crimson By Trista Ann Michael
Accidentally Were? By Anne Douglas
Love, Like Ghosts By Ally Blue
The Windigo By Cynthia Carole
Indian Blood Moon By Jaxx Steele
Open to readers worldwide
8. Flower Peddler Bath & Beauty
http://www.flower-peddler.com
A $30.00 Gift Certificate to their online store. Open to readers worldwide
Remember to grab your FREE buttons and banners, and spread the word using this link: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=11197
(1 votes, average: 5 out of 5)
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Mine too is the Raven but read by Vincent Price. *shiver*
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FID1CiB4bcU
Also voted in the FPAY final round.
RSVP’d for Mark Henry.
Hey, I’m kind of a Poe girl. =] haha. so, here’s my favourite poem.
1.http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LNjgv5p3Ek
2. Done. =]
3. Voted.
4. RSVP’ed!
5. RSVP’ed!
6. Did the Contest! =]
7. Did That contest too. =]
8. Commented. =]
My favorite poems are: Because I could not Stop for Death by Emily Dickinson
http://www.thingsthatgoboo.com/scarypoems/dpstopfordeath.htm
Dreamland by Edgar Allen Poe
http://www.thingsthatgoboo.com/scarypoems/dpdreamland.htm
Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
http://www.thingsthatgoboo.com/scarypoems/dpraven.htm
I have tons more I love but this will do. lol
2. Done
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1. I don’t know which is creepier - the poem or the animation: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COxdI35Zw44
2. Done (#42).
3. Also done (#21) Kim FTW!
4. RSVP #46
5. RSVP #64 - I really think Mark should include a lot more Post It notes on Friday.
6. Done. #44
7. Yup. #64
8. Done #54
!. Mine is probably that one about worms crawling in and out. Yuck!!
2. Commented in Jennifer Rardin’s Release Party
3. VOTED in the final round of the 2009 FPAY awards
4. RSVPed author Susan Blexrud
5. RSVPed Mark Henry guest Vlog
6. Participated in the Carol Nelson Douglas contest
7. Participated in the Keri Arthur Release Party Contest
8. Participated in the It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party!
Whew! What a list!!
Mine is also Raven by Poe. Do I need to post a link for that to. I there are already a few, and I think there are going to be a LOT more LOL.
2-8 DONE!
James Whitcomb Riley Halloween Poem
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hR_j_uasVyg
2. I visited and commented Jennifer Rardin’s interview
3. I voted in the final round poll
4. RSVP’d Author Susan Blexrud
5. RSVP’d Mark Henry Guest Blog
6. Participated in Carole Nelson Douglas Contest
7. Participated in Keri Arthur Release Party Contest
8. Participated in the Its A Dead(wo)Man’s Party
I think that just about covers everything
1. “Ring Around the Rosy” http://www.scaryplace.com/ringaround.html
2. Commented over at Jennifer’s Release party
3. Already voted in the final round of FPAY awards
4. RSVP’d
5. RSVP’d
6. Participated in Carole’s contest
7. Participated in Keri’s contest
8. Participated in Maryjanice’s event
Happy Reading!!!
Anna
1. Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost. I tend to
see the dark untones of this poem. I thought I would post it because
it isn’t so long.
Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
2. Done
3. Voted
5. Done
7. Done
8. Done
Poe is just classic I love teh raven butttt Tell Tale Heart is worse for me
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LNjgv5p3Ek
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TM-tAb-bM-s
and of course a Dream with in a dream
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FfqseSLQLfY
2:going there now
3:done
4:done
5:done
6:done
7:done
8:done
1. I’m with Becky with the Raven from Poe read by Vincent Price. Doesn’t get better than that.
2 through 8 is done. Phew, what a day!
2-3 done
Creepy poems, well i must go wit Edgar Allan Poe
The tell tale heart
http://xroads.virginia.edu/~HYPER/POE/telltale.html
Cos it’s soo long
What can I say? I fell in love with Poe’s writing when I was in 6th grade -even memorized a lot of it. I have never found a poem that can surpass “Once upon a midnight dreary…..And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor, Shall be lifted - nevermore” The Raven is it!
#2 - Done
#3 - Voted
#4 - RSVP’d
#5 - RSVP’d
#6 - Done
#7 - Done
#8 - Done
I love this blog series!!
1. My fav, creepy poem, other than The Raven, is Emily Dickenson’s Because I Could Not Stop For Death. Powerful and creepy.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=COxdI35Zw44
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I found one on the internet it is:
Halloween Health Care Haiku
Trick or treatment? Our
Health Care future in their hands.
Who’s holdin’ the bag?
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/2266029/halloween_health_care_haiku.html
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Spooky or not you decide!
Here’s a couple spooky ones to me: Windigoby Louise Erdrich
For Angela
The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.
You knew I was coming for you, little one,
when the kettle jumped into the fire.
Towels flapped on the hooks,
and the dog crept off, groaning,
to the deepest part of the woods.
In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.
Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot
and called you to eat.
But I spoke in the cold trees:
New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still.
The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.
Copper burned in the raw wood.
You saw me drag toward you.
Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.
You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.
I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.
Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered
from the bushes we passed
until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.
Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full
of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill
all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth
and I carried you home,
a river shaking in the sun.
And:
Song of the Witchesby William Shakespeare
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Fillet of a fenny snake,
In the caldron 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.
Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn and caldron bubble.
Cool it with a baboon’s blood,
Then the charm is firm and good
2,3,4,5,6,7, & 8 are DONE!
Thanks,
Fallon H.
1. My fav. poem: The Highwayman and I love Loreena Mckennit’s version - putting the words to music - check it out here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S2CFM4ev-g8
2. done
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Yay for contests!!!!
- Rena
I’ve done all of it but the first one and that is less a poem and more a verse from a song. Smashing Pumpkins has some fabulous lyrics, but the one that always makes me quirk my head is from “Adore”: “It’s you that I adore. You’ll always be my whore.” ???? Really, Billy? I mean really?
Vincent Price had the perfect voice for reading Poe:
http://www.poetv.com/video.php?vid=25033
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Here is a great poem called Chasing the dragon by Vernon ‘Blake’ Rose.
http://www.scaryplace.com/scaryplace.html (Scaryplace.com has lots of drak poetry and spooky stories)
1, 2, 3, 6, 7, and 8- all done.
4 and 5 - RSVP’d, will be there to comment/participate on their days.
Ursula D.
Ghost House By Robert Frost
http://www.internal.org/view_poem.phtml?poemID=124
2-8 complete
1. I KNow Everyone Seems To Be Picking The Raven But I Have Loved Edgar Allan Poe Since I Was A Little Kid ANd This Poem Was ALWAYS My Favorite.
Edgar Allan Poe
The Raven
[First published in 1845]
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more.’
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more,’
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.
Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’
But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’
Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘
But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!
Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting -
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’
And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!
3. I Voted In The Final Round Of The 2009 FPAY Awards.
6. I Participated In The Carol Nelson Douglas Contest.
7. I Participated In The Keri Arthur Release Party Contest.
8. I Participated In The It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party! For MaryJanice Davidson.
Edgar Allan Poe
A Dream Within A Dream
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep - while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
3. I Voted In The Final Round Of The 2009 FPAY Awards.
6. I Participated In The Carol Nelson Douglas Contest.
7. I Participated In The Keri Arthur Release Party Contest.
8. I Participated In The It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party! For MaryJanice Davidson.
I don’t really read poems but have found these http://www.angelfire.com/wv/labyrinth/creepypoems definatly creepy.
Voted already.
The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe read by Vincent Price
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FID1CiB4bcU
I love Poe, and I don’t really like a lot of poetry. But he’s always been my favorite. I like some of the other selections, too. I’m not sure if Poe’s “Annabel Lee” counts as creepy (though it is tragic romance), but it is also one of my favorites (spoken by Basil Rathbone aka Sherlock Holmes).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfN9NziZoDU
And Poe’s “The Bells” read by Basil Rathbone (though the reading is a bit strange)
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0889pnbURtY&NR=1
Did 2, 3, 4 (and will attend), 5, 6, 7 and 8.
1. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=InKD81indN0 The contrast of the beautiful music and the less “perfect” lyrics is what makes it creepy. It’s even creepier when it’s put into the game context.
2-8. Done
my fav is “The tell Tale Heart” or any thing by Edgar Allen Poe
voted rsvped and joined all the contest
1. Raven by Edgar Allen Poe
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While I do agree with the Raven, have to go for a slightly less creepy option, rather just makes me excited about halloween!
Ok so hocus pocus is a kids film, but you’ve got to love sarah jessica parkers creepy song to lure all the children!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_GU0liie1qc
Alone
From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw — I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone —
Then — in my childhood — in the dawn
Of a most stormy life — was drawn
From ev’ry depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still —
From the torrent, or the fountain —
From the red cliff of the mountain —
From the sun that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn tint of gold —
From the lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me flying by —
From the thunder, and the storm —
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view —
A nice eerie poem by Poe, I love this one. It was in Amelia Atwater-Rhodes’ Demon in my View, back when I was in 7th grade!
Did 2 ,3, 7.
1) My favorite creepy poem is Stephen King’s “Paranoid: A Chant”, which can be found here: http://www.scribd.com/doc/6590317/Paranoid-A-Chant .
2) Done.
Done.
3) Done.
4) RSVPd.
5) Done.
6) Done.
7) Done.
1. Windigo
BY LOUISE ERDRICH
For Angela
The Windigo is a flesh-eating, wintry demon with a man buried deep inside of it. In some Chippewa stories, a young girl vanquishes this monster by forcing boiling lard down its throat, thereby releasing the human at the core of ice.
You knew I was coming for you, little one,
when the kettle jumped into the fire.
Towels flapped on the hooks,
and the dog crept off, groaning,
to the deepest part of the woods.
In the hackles of dry brush a thin laughter started up.
Mother scolded the food warm and smooth in the pot
and called you to eat.
But I spoke in the cold trees:
New one, I have come for you, child hide and lie still.
The sumac pushed sour red cones through the air.
Copper burned in the raw wood.
You saw me drag toward you.
Oh touch me, I murmured, and licked the soles of your feet.
You dug your hands into my pale, melting fur.
I stole you off, a huge thing in my bristling armor.
Steam rolled from my wintry arms, each leaf shivered
from the bushes we passed
until they stood, naked, spread like the cleaned spines of fish.
Then your warm hands hummed over and shoveled themselves full
of the ice and the snow. I would darken and spill
all night running, until at last morning broke the cold earth
and I carried you home,
a river shaking in the sun.
2. Done
3. Done
4. Done
5. Done
6. Done
7. Done
8. Done
Because I could not stop for Death
by Emily Dickinson
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
2-8 done
The Cats
by H. P. Lovecraft
Babels of blocks to the high heavens towering
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flowering,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.
Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable to nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor that rots in the sun.
Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and crawling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.
Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal.
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the Garden of Pluto’s red rune.
Tall towers and pyramids ivy’d and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber’d streets;
Bleak Arkham bridges o’er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick horde retreats.
Belfries that buckle against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac’d,
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the wastes.
Part I
The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding,
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.
He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.
They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilts a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
And over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was locked and barred.
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
“One kiss my bonny sweetheart, I’m after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
If they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by the moonlight,
Watch for me be the moonlight,
I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way.”
He rose upright in the stirrups. He scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i’ the casement. His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet waves in the moonlight!)
He tugged at his reins in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.
Part II
He did not come at the dawning. He did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o’ the moon,
When the road was a gypsys ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red-coat troop came marching,
Marching, marching,
King George’s men came marching, up to the old inn-door.
They said no word to the landlord. They drank his ale instead.
But they gagged his daughter, and bound her, to the foot of her narrow bed.
Two of them knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
Hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through the casement, the road that he would ride.
They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest.
They had bound a musket beside her, with the barrel beneath her breast!
“Now, keep good watch!” and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say-
‘Look for me by the moonlight;
Watch for me by the moonlight;
I’ll come to thee by the moonlight, though hell should bar the way!’
She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
‘Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot!’ Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
‘Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot,’ in the distance! Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still.
‘Tlot-tlot,’ in the frosty silence! ‘Tlot-tlot,’ in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer. Her face was like a light.
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him with her death.
He turned; He spurred to the west; he did not know she stood
Bowed, with her head o’er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord’s daughter,
The landlord’s black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
And back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With the white road smoking behind him and his rapier brandished high.
Blood-red were his spurs i’ the golden noon; wine-red was his velvet coat;
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with the bunch of lace at his
throat.
‘Still of a winter’s night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding,
Riding, Riding,
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old in-door.
On my way to Jennifer Rardin’s Release Party
Voted on the final round of the 2009 FPAY awards
RSVPing with Susan
RSVPed with Mark Henry
Will be on my way to Carol Nelson Douglas
Will be on my way to Keri Arthur’s Party Contest
Gonna Participate in the “it’s a Dead (wo)man Party
i’m into poe too actually i can’t think of another one lol
and i rsvped eveything
Here’s one I found:
The Apparition
By John Donne
When by thy scorn, O murd’ress, I am dead,
And that thou thinkst thee free
From all solicitation from me,
Then shall my ghost come to thy bed,
And thee, feign’d vestal, in worse arms shall see :
Then thy sick taper will begin to wink,
And he, whose thou art then, being tired before,
Will, if thou stir, or pinch to wake him, think
Thou call’st for more,
And, in false sleep, will from thee shrink :
And then, poor aspen wretch, neglected thou
Bathed in a cold quicksilver sweat wilt lie,
A verier ghost than I.
What I will say, I will not tell thee now,
Lest that preserve thee ; and since my love is spent,
I’d rather thou shouldst painfully repent,
Than by my threatenings rest still innocent.
Did 2,3,4,5,6,7, and 8
H.P. Lovecraft was one creepy guy and the poem The House is very eery:
The House
2. attended and left a cool question!
3. already voted and my author is winning:)
4. RSVP’d
5. RSVP’d and left him a nifty suggestion.
6. Just commented.
7. Commented last night!
8. commented last night too– what fun!
1. Edgar Allan Poe, you can’t go wrong. http://poestories.com/read/alone
2. I attended and commented Jennifer’s release party!
3. VOTED
4. RSVP’d
5. RSVP’d
6. Participated in the Carol Nelson Douglas contest
7. Participated in the Keri Arthur Release Party Contest
8. Participated in the It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party
2. Done
3. Done - Go Rowen!
4. RSVP and attend Guest blog, Chat and Contest with author Susan Blexrud here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=11657
5. Done
7. Done
And creepy poem? Um, anything by Poe, dur. Especially the Raven. *shudder* Quote the raven, Never more.
Macbeth:
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Macbeth Act 5, scene 5, 19–28
Cool Contest!!!!!!!!1
1.The vampire drinks till sated
He fills his every pore
And then his thirst abated
licks clean the dripping gore
With powers now replenished
his thirst no longer burns
His quest this night is finished
So to his tomb he turns
And there awhile in silence
He’ll rest beneath the mud
Until with thoughts of violence
He wakes and screams out “Blood!”
2. Done
3. Voted
4. RSVP’ed!
5. RSVP’ed!
6. Done
7. Done
8. Commented
M LaBean
misty_labean@yahoo.com
Tiny Puppet
Sharon K.
Tiny puppet on a string,
Dancing rat, watch him swing.
Whirling, twirling, round and round,
Knurly toes barely touch the ground.
Jennifer Rardin RP,C&C Comment #13
Tweeted chat here http://twitter.com/samk52/status/5231867441
Voted in the 2009 Favorite Paranormal Fiction Author of the Year
Mark Henery chat RSVP# 13
Susan Blexrud GB,C&C RSVP#20
Carole Nelson Douglas comment #15
Keri Arthur comment #14
MaryJanice Davidson comment #6
1. I love Stephen Crane, so I have to pay tribute to him with one of my favorites of his (which is both creepy and short) entitled “In the Desert”:
In the desert
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,
Who, squatting upon the ground,
Held his heart in his hands,
And ate of it.
I said: “Is it good, friend?”
“It is bitter - bitter,” he answered;
“But I like it
Because it is bitter,
And because it is my heart.”
2. Done!
3. Done. Go Richelle Meade!
4. Done.
5. Done!
6. Done.
7. Done!
8. Done!
Thank you!
I have to say I love The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe but another good one is Annabel Lee: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KfN9NziZoDU
Attended Jennifer Rardin’s release party and participated in Carol Nelson Douglas contest, Keri Authur’s release party and Mary Janice Davidson’s party. Rsvp’s with Susan Blexrud and Mark Henry. Also voted for the final round.
A Dream within a Dream by Edgar Allen Poe!!
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VZyNKrYo9I4
2-8 Done!!
Charles Dickens “The Ivy Green”
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ChW1aLux9wk
2-8 Done
Number 1: I think everything by Edgar Allan Poe is my thing.
Voted (Number 3)
Commented on Keri Arthur post (Number 7)
Voted in the 2009 FPAY (http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12281#comment-101346) and my favourite poems have to be Tim Burton’s Melancholy Death of Oyster Boy, such as :
Stick Boy liked Match Girl,
He liked her a lot.
He liked her cute figure,
he thought she was hot.
But could a flame ever burn
for a match and a stick?
It did quite literally;
he burned up quick.
But really, the whole book is made of awesome.
Rachel - How long did it take to get ready, pack, move and unpack? I’m getting ready to move and I’m starting to think nothing will ever get done all the way for the move…
Not a Halloween poem, but I do like The Tyger by William Blake.
2 - 8 done
This one I can still remember memorizing for a class… was amazed that I could still remember a part of it enough to do a search….
The Ghoul
The gruesome ghoul, the grisly ghoul,
without the slightest noise
waits patiently beside the school
to feast on girls and boys
He lunges fiercely though the air
as they com out to play,
and grabs a couple my the hair
and drags them far away.
He cracks their bones and snap their backs
and squeezes out their lungs,
he chew their thumbs like candy snacks
and pulls apart their tongues.
He slices their stomachs and bite their hearts
and tears their flash to shreds,
he swallows their toes like toasted tarts
and gobbles down their heads
Fingers, elbow, hands and knees
and arms and legs and feet-
he eats them with delight and ease,
for every part’s a treat.
And when the gruesome grisly ghoul
has nothing left to chew,
he hurries to another school
and waits. . . perhaps for you.
Have done all the other things for this contest…..
My favorite creepy poem is one I have written called Twisted Kisses. You can find it on mibba.com and/or quizilla.com with my username being CallMeKayla on both accounts.
2. done
3. done
4. done
5. done
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8. done
Im not that into poetry.
3 done.
Cruelest of Fates
Her throat embraced the dark daggers of cruelty,
She tries to leave the edge of chaos, to evacuate her grave,
Only to find she is condemned to forever dwell in the darkness of night.
Sentenced to the life of the undead, forced to linger for eternity.
Her only unavoidable, undeniable need, the crimson life of those she once loved.
http://www.cryjustice.com/gothicpoetry.htm
2. done
3. done
4. done
5. done
6. done
7. done
8. done
wow! this has been a amazing month of contests, polls, and interviews. I really don’t know how you have managed to pull it all off with the move, but I must say “nice job! after this,I think you need a mini-break!
Ok, so I dont know of any Creepy poems that come to mind except for Poe, and I really hate to use that because it would be too easy for me, so I am postign a poem I wrote for my love of vamps.; (it’s not creepy, but it’s within the paranormal theme so here goes)
IMMORTAL KISS
I glance across the crowded bar
Our eyes make contact from afar
You turn your head away at first
But cannot hide your naked thirst
I feel your pull-your strong desire
Deep inside-a burning fire
I come to you awaiting bliss
I brace for your immortal kiss…
here is the link on lul.poetry:
http://www.poetry.com/poems/Immortal-Kiss/14196138/
2- 8 are already done.
I found a ton online, but I have to share this, one of my all-time favorites. Yes, it’s Poe, but not one of his usual ones. And it’s probably not creepy in a traditional manner, but it’s always kinda made me wonder…
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream:
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision or in none,
Is it therefore the less _gone_?
_All_ that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
_One_ from the pitiless wave?
Is _all_ that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
#1, 2, 3, 5 & 8 are done!
Congrats on being almost all moved! Oh, and you’ll NEVER be all unpacked. LOL
it’s Death By Mark R. Slaughter
It’s Death Again
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It’s Death again - He’s always there -
Watching, waiting, with a stare.
Every time I look behind,
Or reach to pull the window blind,
I catch a glimpse of grubby hood -
A little clue to where he stood:
The glint of light that caught the scythe.
Perhaps if I could pay a tithe…
But oh, no use, he’ll never go -
The adamant phantom – don’t you know,
He will but wait until it’s time-?
For me to hear His fateful chime:
The toll that’s only meant for me -
To say ‘You’re next, it has to be…’
Weirdly my favorite poem is from Vincent Price when he did the song from Thriller.
Darkness falls across the land
The midnight hour is close at hand
Creatures crawl in search of blood
To terrorize your neighborhood
And whosoever shall be found
Without the soul for getting down
Must stand and face the hounds of hell
And rot inside a corpse’s shell
The foulest stench is in the air
The funk of forty thousand years
And grizzly ghouls from every tomb
Are closing in to seal your doom
And though you fight to stay alive
Your body starts to shiver
For no mortal can resist
The evil of the thriller
FYI, you can never have too many giveaways or to many visits by authors! Great job BBB!!
The Witch
By Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
I HAVE walked a great while over the snow,
And I am not tall nor strong.
My clothes are wet, and my teeth are set,
And the way was hard and long.
I have wandered over the fruitful earth,
But I never came here before.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!
The cutting wind is a cruel foe.
I dare not stand in the blast.
My hands are stone, and my voice a groan,
And the worst of death is past.
I am but a little maiden still,
My little white feet are sore.
Oh, lift me over the threshold, and let me in at the door!
Her voice was the voice that women have,
Who plead for their heart’s desire.
She came–she came–and the quivering flame
Sunk and died in the fire.
It never was lit again on my hearth
Since I hurried across the floor,
To lift her over the threshold, and let her in at the door.
2. Completed
3. Completed….go Kim go!
4. Completed
5. Completed
6. semi-completed…Left a comment, haven’t tried the drinks and will read the chapters later this evening.
7. Completed
8. Completed…that was too amusing to read!!!
I hope I did everything right!
Thanks,
Sue
Well since everyone seems to be picking the most popular of Poe (the Raven) I feel the need to point out that he was pure brilliance in everything he has written! Here is another of my favorites!…
The Sleeper
by Edgar Allan Poe
(published 1831)
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin molders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! the lake
A conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps!- and lo! where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!
O, lady bright! can it be right-
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop-
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully- so fearfully-
Above the closed and fringed lid
‘Neath which thy slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come O’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! strange thy dress,
Strange, above all, thy length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold-
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Triumphant, o’er the crested palls,
Of her grand family funerals-
Some sepulchre, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many an idle stone-
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
2-8 done as well!!!
1.Omigosh! Someone else who loves the The Cremation of Sam McGee by Robert W. Service! I LOVE that poem!! Here’s an audio recording of Robert W. Service reciting his poem.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JZG9kP9kAiY
2. Commented in Jennifer Rardin’s Release Party.
3. Voted in the final round of the 2009 FPAY awards.
5. RSVPed for Mark Henry’s guest Vlog.
6. Participated in the Carol Nelson Douglas contest.
7. Participated in the Keri Arthur Release Party Contest.
8. Participated in the It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party! for MaryJanice Davidson.
The Lake by Edgar Allan Poe has always been a fav of mine,
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less-
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody-
Then-ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight-
A feeling not the jewelled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define-
Nor Love-although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining-
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
2. Done
3. Done
5. Done
6. Done
7. Done
8. Done
I love contests!
1. Edgar Allen Poe ‘The Telltale Heart’
TRUE! –nervous –very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses –not destroyed –not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily –how calmly I can tell you the whole story.
It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! He had the eye of a vulture –a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees –very gradually –I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever.
Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded –with what caution –with what foresight –with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it –oh so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly –very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha! would a madman have been so wise as this, And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously-oh, so cautiously –cautiously (for the hinges creaked) –I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights –every night just at midnight –but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he has passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept.
Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers –of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back –but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness, (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers,) and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily.
I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in bed, crying out –”Who’s there?”
I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening; –just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall.
Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief –oh, no! –it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself –”It is nothing but the wind in the chimney –it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “It is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these suppositions: but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel –although he neither saw nor heard –to feel the presence of my head within the room.
When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little –a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it –you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily –until, at length a simple dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and fell full upon the vulture eye.
It was open –wide, wide open –and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness –all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot.
And have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but over-acuteness of the sense? –now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well, too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage.
But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eve. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment! –do you mark me well I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me –the sound would be heard by a neighbour! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once –once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eve would trouble me no more.
If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs.
I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye –not even his –could have detected any thing wrong. There was nothing to wash out –no stain of any kind –no blood-spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all –ha! ha!
When I had made an end of these labors, it was four o’clock –still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart, –for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbour during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises.
I smiled, –for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search –search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim.
The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted of familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct: –It continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definiteness –until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears.
No doubt I now grew very pale; –but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased –and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound –much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath –and yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly –more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations; but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men –but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed –I raved –I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder –louder –louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God! –no, no! They heard! –they suspected! –they knew! –they were making a mockery of my horror!-this I thought, and this I think. But anything was better than this agony! Anything was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die! and now –again! –hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!
“Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed! –tear up the planks! here, here! –It is the beating of his hideous heart!”
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Woot Contests!!
1 - Anything by Poe is a definite. But since you took the Raven, I’ll go with Jabberwocky by Lewis Carroll
http://www.jabberwocky.com/carroll/jabber/jabberwocky.html
2 through 8 are done
Jocelynn Drake rocks!!!
1. There are several good creepy poems….
One that I like is Because I could not stop for Death by Emily Dickinson, it can be found here http://www.thingsthatgoboo.com/scarypoems/dpstopfordeath.htm
Another good one is A Dream Within a Dream by Edgar Allan Poe, here it is: http://www.thingsthatgoboo.com/scarypoems/dpadreamwithinadream.htm
And the last good one I have is The Three Witches from Macbeth by William Shakespear, here is a link for it also http://www.thingsthatgoboo.com/scarypoems/dpthreewitches.htm
3. Just finished….Had to vote for Karen Marie Moning, but it was such a hard decision - I almost had to flip a coin!
The Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe always scared me.
See this site:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LNjgv5p3Ek
This very abstract but it actually from a video game Slilet Hill:
Pure eyes, blue like a glassy bead—
You are always looking at me
and I am always looking at you.
Ah, you’re too meek—
beautiful, unspoiled:
thus I’m so sad, I suffer—
and so happy, it hurts.
I want to hurt you
and destroy myself
What you would think
if you knew how I felt.
Would you simply smile,
not saying a word?
Even curses from your mouth
would be as beautiful as pearls.
I place my left hand on your
face as though we were to kiss.
Then I suddenly shove my thumb
deep into your eyesocket.
Abruptly, decisively,
like drilling a hole.
And what would it feel like?
Like jelly?
Trembling with ecstasy, I obscenely
mix it around and around: I must
taste the warmth of your blood.
How would you scream?
Would you shriek “It hurts!
It hurts!” as cinnabar-red tears
stream from your crushed eye?
You can’t know the maddening
hunger I’ve felt in the midst of
our kisses, so many of them
I’ve lost count.
As though drinking in your cries,
I bring my hopes to fruition:
biting your tongue, shredding it,
biting at your lips as if tasting
your lipstick.
Oh, what euphoric heights I would
reach, having my desires fulfilled
like a greedy, gluttonous cur.
I longed, too, for your cherry-tinted
cheeks, tasty enough to bewitch my
tongue.
I would surely be healed,
and would cry like a child.
And how is your tender ear?
It brushes against my cheek;
I want it to creep up to my lips so
I can sink my teeth into its flesh.
Your left ear, always hearing words
whispered sweet as pie—
I want it to hear my true feelings.
I never lied, no…
but I did have my secrets.
Ah, but what must you think of me?
Do you hate me? Are you afraid?
As though inviting you to the agony
at the play’s end; if you wish, you
could destroy me— I wouldn’t care.
As you wish, you may destroy me
— I wouldn’t care.
2-8 I have already done.
1. The Raven would be my favorite.
2-8. done
Edgar Allan Poe is always a favorite. My favorite is ‘Tell-Tale Heart’. Vincent Price always makes it perfect.
Part 1: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2LNjgv5p3Ek
Part 2: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TM-tAb-bM-s
2: Done
3: Done
4: RSVP
5: Done
6: Done
7: Done
8: Done
When you’re dead: The worms go in, the worms go out. The worms play peenucle on your snout.
1. I don’t know who wrote this…
I Am The Night
I am the night.
I am darkness at it’s bluest.
To me there is sheer delight in the shadow of the night
No need to insist, for the night I exist.
The light of day is not night’s way.
I am the night.
I am a creature of the dark.
I have been groomed for gloom.
For eons of time, the night has been mine.
I can’t remember when the night and me didn’t function as twins.
Just as the ocean’s floor holds mysteries, the night alone conceals my history.
I am the night
Just as poetry flows from ocean currents and from the slashing force of wind
springs forth designs,
Each drop of rain delivers music to our minds, poetry never ceases.
From my point of view, at night it increases.
I find beauty in each dancing shadow and exquisite delight in the secret of the night.
The spirit things clothed in the unknown,
Travel the same path that I consider home.
Things that move skillfully at night do so without sight.
I love these wonders for I am the night.
My five senses are more acute than most.
Of this superiority, I proudly boast.
My movements are as swift as lightening dashing across the sky.
They can’t be held in focus by the human eye.
Question - Who am I?
I feed on a secret vein of life and rest in the protective cover of dusk in disguise.
My skin is cold to the touch, don’t worry you won’t touch me much.
My beginning is of no importance, but I see no end in sight.
I believe I am forever;
I am the night
I have been known by many titles and names.
For none of them do I feel shame, for I exist as all do.
Just as I am me, and you are you.
I am called Satan, Impaler, Death, Blood Drinker; just to name a few -
Pick one that suits you.
Some even call me a Ghost;
yet, vampire is what I am called the most
Whether these names are wrong or right, the fact remains -
I am the night.
2.,6.,7.,8 going now
3.,4.,5 Done
Have to join the ranks of those who love Poe’s The Raven.
Got the rest covered, or will as soon as I’m off here.
1. The Lake by Edgar Allan Poe
In spring of youth it was my lot
To haunt of the wide world a spot
The which I could not love the less -
So lovely was the loneliness
Of a wild lake, with black rock bound,
And the tall pines that towered around.
But when the Night had thrown her pall
Upon that spot, as upon all,
And the mystic wind went by
Murmuring in melody -
Then - ah then I would awake
To the terror of the lone lake.
Yet that terror was not fright,
But a tremulous delight -
A feeling not the jeweled mine
Could teach or bribe me to define -
Nor Love- although the Love were thine.
Death was in that poisonous wave,
And in its gulf a fitting grave
For him who thence could solace bring
To his lone imagining -
Whose solitary soul could make
An Eden of that dim lake.
2. Done
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8. Done
1. I am a Poe Girl! The Raven!
2. Done
3. Done
4. Done
5. Done
6. Done
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ALL DONE!
All under Lisa G
OK, so here is a poem I found and thought was pretty creepy!
The Hellbound Train
Anonymous
A Texas cowboy lay down on a barroom floor,
Having drunk so much he could drink no more;
So he fell asleep with a troubled brain
To dream that he rode on a hell-bound train.
The engine with murderous blood was damp
And was brilliantly lit with a brimstone lamp;
An imp, for fuel, was shoveling bones,
While the furnace rang with a thousand groans.
The boiler was filled with lager beer
And the devil himself was the engineer;
The passengers were a most motley crew-
Church member, atheist, Gentile, and Jew,
Rich men in broad cloth, beggars in rags,
Handsome young ladies, and withered old hags,
Yellow and black men, red, brown, and white,
All chained together-O God, what a sight!
While the train rushed on at an awful pace-
The sulphurous fumes scorched their hands and face;
Wider and wider the country grew,
As faster and faster the engine flew.
Louder and louder the thunder crashed
And brighter and brighter the lightning flashed;
Hotter and hotter the air became
Till the clothes were burned from each quivering frame.
And out of the distance there arose a yell,
“Ha, ha,” said the devil, “we’re nearing hell”
Then oh, how the passengers all shrieked with pain
And begged the devil to stop the train.
But he capered about and danced for glee,
And laughed and joked at their misery.
“My faithful friends, you have done the work
And the devil never can a payday shirk.
“You’ve bullied the weak, you’ve robbed the poor,
The starving brother you’ve turned from the door;
You’ve laid up gold where the canker rust,
And have given free vent to your beastly lust.
“You’ve justice scorned, and corruption sown,
And trampled the laws of nature down.
You have drunk, rioted, cheated, plundered, and lied,
And mocked at God in your hell-born pride.
“You have paid full fare, so I’ll carry you through,
For it’s only right you should have your due.
Why, the laborer always expects his hire,
So I’ll land you safe in the lake of fire,
“Where your flesh will waste in the flames that roar,
And my imps torment you forevermore.”
Then the cowboy awoke with an anguished cry,
His clothes wet with sweat and his hair standing high.
Then he prayed as he never had prayed till that hour
To be saved from his sin and the demon’s power;
And his prayers and his vows were not in vain,
For he never rode the hell-bound train.
Contest #’s 1 through 8 done!
Thanks,
Valorie B
Here is a Halloween Poem
The Witches Caldron
“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 owlet’s wing”
“For a charm of powerful trouble,
Like a hell-broth boil and babble”
“Double, double, toil and trouble,
Fire burn, and caldron bubble”
William Shakespeare
visited JRardin
voted
rsvpd
rsvpd
drank up!
Keri Arthur (check)
laughed at Dead (wo)Mens party
1.
Spooks
- by Sandra Liatsos
There’s a goblin at my window,
A monster by my door.
The pumpkin at my table
Keeps on smiling more and more.
There’s a ghost who haunts my bedroom,
A witch whose face is green.
They used to be my family,
Till they dressed for Halloween.
2.will be doing later to night
3.Did that
4Will be doing after this
5.Did that
6.Going there Next
7.Did That
8.Going there later tonight.
From Stacey S
sasluvbooks@yahoo.com
I love Poe. I am going to a Poe event at Mt Hope Estate on the 7th (I cannot wait.)
I did everything else.
Thanks
LOVE LOVE LOVE POE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! My absolute favorites are The City in the Sea and The Conqueror Worm.
Here’s The City in the Sea
Lo! Death has reared himself a throne In a strange city lying alone Far down within the dim West, Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best Have gone to their eternal rest. There shrines and palaces and towers (Time-eaten towers and tremble not!) Resemble nothing that is ours. Around, by lifting winds forgot, Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. No rays from the holy Heaven come down On the long night-time of that town; But light from out the lurid sea Streams up the turrets silently– Gleams up the pinnacles far and free– Up domes–up spires–up kingly halls– Up fanes–up Babylon-like walls– Up shadowy long-forgotten bowers Of sculptured ivy and stone flowers– Up many and many a marvellous shrine Whose wreathed friezes intertwine The viol, the violet, and the vine. Resignedly beneath the sky The melancholy waters lie. So blend the turrets and shadows there That all seem pendulous in air, While from a proud tower in the town Death looks gigantically down. There open fanes and gaping graves Yawn level with the luminous waves; But not the riches there that lie In each idol’s diamond eye– Not the gaily-jewelled dead Tempt the waters from their bed; For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass– No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea– No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene. But lo, a stir is in the air! The wave–there is a movement there! As if the towers had thrust aside, In slightly sinking, the dull tide– As if their tops had feebly given A void within the filmy Heaven. The waves have now a redder glow– The hours are breathing faint and low– And when, amid no earthly moans, Down, down that town shall settle hence, Hell, rising from a thousand thrones, Shall do it reverence.
Doesn’t it give you chills?
1. For this season it is Little Orphan Annie and The Raven by Poe. You linked The Raven above but here is one to Little Orphan Annie - http://www.americanpoems.com/poets/James-Whitcomb-Riley/13510
2. done
3. done
4. RSVP’d
5. RSVP’d
6. done
7. done
8. done
An Obsession
Silently I stare at you
You don’t know I’m around
I know where you’ve been
I know where you are bound
I know where you live
I know where you sleep
You don’t even know me
But my love for you runs deep
I see you in my dreams
I want me in your’s too
I want you to know ans love me
But there is no way to tell you
This is how it’s going to be
It will, and has never changed
I’ll continue to be your stalker
Don’t think that I’m deranged
I love you but you’ll never know
Cuz I’m your silent stalker
I’ll continue watching you; well,
Until I kill and find another…
I think I did the other 7 too.
1) Robert Browning’s “Porphyria’s Lover”:
The rain set early in to-night,
The sullen wind was soon awake,
It tore the elm-tops down for spite,
And did its worst to vex the lake:
I listened with heart fit to break.
When glided in Porphyria; straight
She shut the cold out and the storm,
And kneeled and made the cheerless grate
Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;
Which done, she rose, and from her form
Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,
And laid her soiled gloves by, untied
Her hat and let the damp hair fall,
And, last, she sat down by my side
And called me. When no voice replied,
She put my arm about her waist,
And made her smooth white shoulder bare,
And all her yellow hair displaced,
And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,
And spread, o’er all, her yellow hair,
Murmuring how she loved me—she
Too weak, for all her heart’s endeavour,
To set its struggling passion free
From pride, and vainer ties dissever,
And give herself to me for ever.
But passion sometimes would prevail,
Nor could to-night’s gay feast restrain
A sudden thought of one so pale
For love of her, and all in vain:
So, she was come through wind and rain.
Be sure I looked up at her eyes
Happy and proud; at last I knew
Porphyria worshipped me; surprise
Made my heart swell, and still it grew
While I debated what to do.
That moment she was mine, mine, fair,
Perfectly pure and good: I found
A thing to do, and all her hair
In one long yellow string I wound
Three times her little throat around,
And strangled her. No pain felt she;
I am quite sure she felt no pain.
As a shut bud that holds a bee,
I warily oped her lids: again
Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.
And I untightened next the tress
About her neck; her cheek once more
Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:
I propped her head up as before,
Only, this time my shoulder bore
Her head, which droops upon it still:
The smiling rosy little head,
So glad it has its utmost will,
That all it scorned at once is fled,
And I, its love, am gained instead!
Porphyria’s love: she guessed not how
Her darling one wish would be heard.
And thus we sit together now,
And all night long we have not stirred,
And yet God has not said a word!
2) Commented.
3) Definitely voted!
4)RSVPed but I can’t go.
5)RSVPed–I can’t go to this either!
6) Participated–option #2
7) Participated.
6)
I don’t know if this counts as a halloween poem, but I love it. It’s “Because I could not Stop for Death” by Emily Dickenson
Because I could not stop for Death –
He kindly stopped for me –
The Carriage held but just Ourselves –
And Immortality.
We slowly drove – He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility –
We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess – in the Ring –
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain –
We passed the Setting Sun –
Or rather – He passed us –
The Dews drew quivering and chill –
For only Gossamer, my Gown –
My Tippet – only Tulle –
We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground –
The Roof was scarcely visible –
The Cornice – in the Ground –
Since then – ’tis Centuries – and yet
Feels shorter than the Day
I first surmised the Horses’ Heads
Were toward Eternity –
All the rest I’ve also done
1. To enter today’s contest all you need to do is: Share your favorite chronically creepy poem with us. It can be written (copy/paste), or a link to a video/audio clip. It can even be a poem you have written!
Okay - this is actually a song that my man Dave dedicated to me on his Halloween radio show this past Sunday - it’s called “Psycho” written by Leon Payne and sung by Elvis Costello…what can I say, that man loves me..er…this is creepy so consider yourself warned.
Song Lyrics:
Can Mary fry some fish, mama
I’m as hungry as can be
Oh lord, how I wish, mama
You could stop the baby cryin’
‘Cause my head is killing me
I saw my ex again last night mama
She was at the dance at Miller’s store
She was with that Jackie White mama
I killed them both
And they’re buried under Jacob’s sycamore
You think I’m psycho don’t you mama
I didn’t mean to break your cup
You think I’m psycho don’t you mama
You better let ‘em lock me up
Oh, don’t hand me Johnny’s pup mama
As I might squeeze him too tight
I’m havin’ crazy dreams again mama
So let me tell you ’bout last night
I woke up in Johnny’s room mama
Standing right there by his bed
With my hands around his throat mama
Wishing both of us were dead
You think I’m psycho don’t you mama
I just killed Johnny’s pup
You think I’m psycho don’t you mama
You’d better let ‘em lock me up
Oh you recall that little girl mama
I believe her name was Betty Clark
Oh don’t tell me that she’s dead mama
‘Cause I just saw her in the park
We were sitting on a bench mama
Thinking of a game to play
Seems I was holding a wrench mama
Then my mind just walked away
You think I’m psycho don’t you mama
I didn’t mean to break your cup
You think I’m psycho don’t you mama
Mama why don’t you get up?
BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
2. Go and comment in Jennifer Rardin’s Release Party today here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12388
Jennifer Rardin Rocks! I asked for friendship and newsletter on Facebook.
3. VOTE in the final round of the 2009 FPAY awards here:
Michelle Rowen Rules!
4. RSVP and attend Guest blog, Chat and Contest with author Susan Blexrud here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=11657 - RSVPed cause I’m needing help Fang Shuing my bedroom.
5. RSVP and help out Mark Henry for his guest Vlog here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12379 - Hey! I’m the only stalker that has commented on his blog! What the…. - come on people…show him the luv!
6. Participate in the Carol Nelson Douglas contest here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12354
7. Participate in the Keri Arthur Release Party Contest here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12373 - Commented.
8. Participate in the It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party! for MaryJanice Davidson here: http://bittenbybooks.com/?p=12337 - Commented.
I hope you like reading Rach, cause all these posts are longggggggggggggg.
I have always liked this one. When I was growing up my best friend’s name was Christina Rossetti and what it says about sisters is true….
Goblin Market
by Christina Rossetti (1862)
Morning and evening
Maids heard the goblins cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:
Apples and quinces,
Lemons and oranges,
Plump unpecked cherries,
Melons and raspberries,
Bloom-down-cheeked peaches,
Swart-headed mulberries,
Wild free-born cranberries,
Crab-apples, dewberries,
Pine-apples, blackberries,
Apricots, strawberries;—
All ripe together
In summer weather,—
Morns that pass by,
Fair eves that fly;
Come buy, come buy:
Our grapes fresh from the vine,
Pomegranates full and fine,
Dates and sharp bullaces,
Rare pears and greengages,
Damsons and bilberries,
Taste them and try:
Currants and gooseberries,
Bright-fire-like barberries,
Figs to fill your mouth,
Citrons from the South,
Sweet to tongue and sound to eye;
Come buy, come buy.”
Evening by evening
Among the brookside rushes,
Laura bowed her head to hear,
Lizzie veiled her blushes:
Crouching close together
In the cooling weather,
With clasping arms and cautioning lips,
With tingling cheeks and finger tips.
“Lie close,” Laura said,
Pricking up her golden head:
“We must not look at goblin men,
We must not buy their fruits:
Who knows upon what soil they fed
Their hungry thirsty roots?”
“Come buy,” call the goblins
Hobbling down the glen.
“Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura,
You should not peep at goblin men.”
Lizzie covered up her eyes,
Covered close lest they should look;
Laura reared her glossy head,
And whispered like the restless brook:
“Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie,
Down the glen tramp little men.
One hauls a basket,
One bears a plate,
One lugs a golden dish
Of many pounds weight.
How fair the vine must grow
Whose grapes are so luscious;
How warm the wind must blow
Thro’ those fruit bushes.”
“No,” said Lizzie: “No, no, no;
Their offers should not charm us,
Their evil gifts would harm us.”
She thrust a dimpled finger
In each ear, shut eyes and ran:
Curious Laura chose to linger
Wondering at each merchant man.
One had a cats face,
One whisked a tail,
One tramped at a rat’s pace,
One crawled like a snail,
One like a wombat prowled obtuse and furry,
One like a ratel tumbled hurry skurry.
She heard a voice like voice of doves
Cooing all together:
They sounded kind and full of loves
In the pleasant weather.
Laura stretched her gleaming neck
Like a rush-imbedded swan,
Like a lily from the beck,
Like a moonlit poplar branch,
Like a vessel at the launch
When its last restraint is gone.
Backwards up the mossy glen
Turned and trooped the goblin men,
With their shrill repeated cry,
“Come buy, come buy.”
When they reached where Laura was
They stood stock still upon the moss,
Leering at each other,
Brother with queer brother;
Signalling each other,
Brother with sly brother.
One set his basket down,
One reared his plate;
One began to weave a crown
Of tendrils, leaves and rough nuts brown
(Men sell not such in any town);
One heaved the golden weight
Of dish and fruit to offer her:
“Come buy, come buy,” was still their cry.
Laura stared but did not stir,
Longed but had no money:
The whisk-tailed merchant bade her taste
In tones as smooth as honey,
The cat-faced purr’d,
The rat-paced spoke a word
Of welcome, and the snail-paced even was heard;
One parrot-voiced and jolly
Cried “Pretty Goblin” still for “Pretty Polly;”—
One whistled like a bird.
But sweet-tooth Laura spoke in haste:
“Good folk, I have no coin;
To take were to purloin:
I have no copper in my purse,
I have no silver either,
And all my gold is on the furze
That shakes in windy weather
Above the rusty heather.”
“You have much gold upon your head,”
They answered all together:
“Buy from us with a golden curl.”
She clipped a precious golden lock,
She dropped a tear more rare than pearl,
Then sucked their fruit globes fair or red:
Sweeter than honey from the rock,
Stronger than man-rejoicing wine,
Clearer than water flowed that juice;
She never tasted such before,
How should it cloy with length of use?
She sucked and sucked and sucked the more
Fruits which that unknown orchard bore;
She sucked until her lips were sore;
Then flung the emptied rinds away
But gathered up one kernel-stone,
And knew not was it night or day
As she turned home alone.
Lizzie met her at the gate
Full of wise upbraidings:
“Dear, you should not stay so late,
Twilight is not good for maidens;
Should not loiter in the glen
In the haunts of goblin men.
Do you not remember Jeanie,
How she met them in the moonlight,
Took their gifts both choice and many,
Ate their fruits and wore their flowers
Plucked from bowers
Where summer ripens at all hours?
But ever in the moonlight
She pined and pined away;
Sought them by night and day,
Found them no more but dwindled and grew grey;
Then fell with the first snow,
While to this day no grass will grow
Where she lies low:
I planted daisies there a year ago
That never blow.
You should not loiter so.”
“Nay, hush,” said Laura:
“Nay, hush, my sister:
I ate and ate my fill,
Yet my mouth waters still;
Tomorrow night I will
Buy more:” and kissed her:
“Have done with sorrow;
I’ll bring you plums tomorrow
Fresh on their mother twigs,
Cherries worth getting;
You cannot think what figs
My teeth have met in,
What melons icy-cold
Piled on a dish of gold
Too huge for me to hold,
What peaches with a velvet nap,
Pellucid grapes without one seed:
Odorous indeed must be the mead
Whereon they grow, and pure the wave they drink
With lilies at the brink,
And sugar-sweet their sap.”
Golden head by golden head,
Like two pigeons in one nest
Folded in each other’s wings,
They lay down in their curtained bed:
Like two blossoms on one stem,
Like two flakes of new-fall’n snow,
Like two wands of ivory
Tipped with gold for awful kings.
Moon and stars gazed in at them,
Wind sang to them lullaby,
Lumbering owls forbore to fly,
Not a bat flapped to and fro
Round their rest:
Cheek to cheek and breast to breast
Locked together in one nest.
Early in the morning
When the first cock crowed his warning,
Neat like bees, as sweet and busy,
Laura rose with Lizzie:
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,
Kneaded cakes of whitest wheat,
Cakes for dainty mouths to eat,
Next churned butter, whipped up cream,
Fed their poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should:
Lizzie with an open heart,
Laura in an absent dream,
One content, one sick in part;
One warbling for the mere bright day’s delight,
One longing for the night.
At length slow evening came:
They went with pitchers to the reedy brook;
Lizzie most placid in her look,
Laura most like a leaping flame.
They drew the gurgling water from its deep;
Lizzie plucked purple and rich golden flags,
Then turning homewards said: “The sunset flushes
Those furthest loftiest crags;
Come, Laura, not another maiden lags,
No wilful squirrel wags,
The beasts and birds are fast asleep.”
But Laura loitered still among the rushes
And said the bank was steep.
And said the hour was early still,
The dew not fall’n, the wind not chill:
Listening ever, but not catching
The customary cry,
“Come buy, come buy,”
With its iterated jingle
Of sugar-baited words:
Not for all her watching
Once discerning even one goblin
Racing, whisking, tumbling, hobbling;
Let alone the herds
That used to tramp along the glen,
In groups or single,
Of brisk fruit-merchant men.
Till Lizzie urged, “O Laura, come;
I hear the fruit-call but I dare not look:
You should not loiter longer at this brook:
Come with me home.
The stars rise, the moon bends her arc,
Each glowworm winks her spark,
Let us get home before the night grows dark:
For clouds may gather
Tho’ this is summer weather,
Put out the lights and drench us thro’;
Then if we lost our way what should we do?”
Laura turned cold as stone
To find her sister heard that cry alone,
That goblin cry,
“Come buy our fruits, come buy.”
Must she then buy no more such dainty fruit?
Must she no more such succous pasture find,
Gone deaf and blind?
Her tree of life drooped from the root:
She said not one word in her heart’s sore ache;
But peering thro’ the dimness, nought discerning,
Trudged home, her pitcher dripping all the way;
So crept to bed, and lay
Silent till Lizzie slept;
Then sat up in a passionate yearning,
And gnashed her teeth for baulked desire, and wept
As if her heart would break.
Day after day, night after night,
Laura kept watch in vain
In sullen silence of exceeding pain.
She never caught again the goblin cry:
“Come buy, come buy;”—
She never spied the goblin men
Hawking their fruits along the glen:
But when the noon waxed bright
Her hair grew thin and grey;
She dwindled, as the fair full moon doth turn
To swift decay and burn
Her fire away.
One day remembering her kernel-stone
She set it by a wall that faced the south;
Dewed it with tears, hoped for a root,
Watched for a waxing shoot,
But there came none:
It never saw the sun,
It never felt the trickling moisture run:
While with sunk eyes and faded mouth
She dreamed of melons, as a traveller sees
False waves in desert drouth
With shade of leaf-crowned trees,
And burns the thirstier in the sandful breeze.
She no more swept the house,
Tended the fowls or cows,
Fetched honey, kneaded cakes of wheat,
Brought water from the brook:
But sat down listless in the chimney-nook
And would not eat.
Tender Lizzie could not bear
To watch her sister’s cankerous care
Yet not to share.
She night and morning
Caught the goblins’ cry:
“Come buy our orchard fruits,
Come buy, come buy:”—
Beside the brook, along the glen,
She heard the tramp of goblin men,
The voice and stir
Poor Laura could not hear;
Longed to buy fruit to comfort her,
But feared to pay too dear.
She thought of Jeanie in her grave,
Who should have been a bride;
But who for joys brides hope to have
Fell sick and died
In her gay prime,
In earliest Winter time,
With the first glazing rime,
With the first snow-fall of crisp Winter time.
Till Laura dwindling
Seemed knocking at Death’s door:
Then Lizzie weighed no more
Better and worse;
But put a silver penny in her purse,
Kissed Laura, crossed the heath with clumps of furze
At twilight, halted by the brook:
And for the first time in her life
Began to listen and look.
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,—
Hugged her and kissed her,
Squeezed and caressed her:
Stretched up their dishes,
Panniers, and plates:
“Look at our apples
Russet and dun,
Bob at our cherries,
Bite at our peaches,
Citrons and dates,
Grapes for the asking,
Pears red with basking
Out in the sun,
Plums on their twigs;
Pluck them and suck them,
Pomegranates, figs.”—
“Good folk,” said Lizzie,
Mindful of Jeanie:
“Give me much and many:”—
Held out her apron,
Tossed them her penny.
“Nay, take a seat with us,
Honour and eat with us,”
They answered grinning:
“Our feast is but beginning.
Night yet is early,
Warm and dew-pearly,
Wakeful and starry:
Such fruits as these
No man can carry;
Half their bloom would fly,
Half their dew would dry,
Half their flavour would pass by.
Sit down and feast with us,
Be welcome guest with us,
Cheer you and rest with us.”—
“Thank you,” said Lizzie: “But one waits
At home alone for me:
So without further parleying,
If you will not sell me any
Of your fruits tho’ much and many,
Give me back my silver penny
I tossed you for a fee.”—
They began to scratch their pates,
No longer wagging, purring,
But visibly demurring,
Grunting and snarling.
One called her proud,
Cross-grained, uncivil;
Their tones waxed loud,
Their looks were evil.
Lashing their tails
They trod and hustled her,
Elbowed and jostled her,
Clawed with their nails,
Barking, mewing, hissing, mocking,
Tore her gown and soiled her stocking,
Twitched her hair out by the roots,
Stamped upon her tender feet,
Held her hands and squeezed their fruits
Against her mouth to make her eat.
White and golden Lizzie stood,
Like a lily in a flood,—
Like a rock of blue-veined stone
Lashed by tides obstreperously,—
Like a beacon left alone
In a hoary roaring sea,
Sending up a golden fire,—
Like a fruit-crowned orange-tree
White with blossoms honey-sweet
Sore beset by wasp and bee,—
Like a royal virgin town
Topped with gilded dome and spire
Close beleaguered by a fleet
Mad to tug her standard down.
One may lead a horse to water,
Twenty cannot make him drink.
Tho’ the goblins cuffed and caught her,
Coaxed and fought her,
Bullied and besought her,
Scratched her, pinched her black as ink,
Kicked and knocked her,
Mauled and mocked her,
Lizzie uttered not a word;
Would not open lip from lip
Lest they should cram a mouthful in:
But laughed in heart to feel the drip
Of juice that syrupped all her face,
And lodged in dimples other chin,
And streaked her neck which quaked like curd.
At last the evil people
Worn out by her resistance
Flung back her penny, kicked their fruit
Along whichever road they took,
Not leaving root or stone or shoot;
Some writhed into the ground,
Some dived into the brook
With ring and ripple,
Some scudded on the gale without a sound,
Some vanished in the distance.
In a smart, ache, tingle,
Lizzie went her way;
Knew not was it night or day;
Sprang up the bank, tore thro’ the furze,
Threaded copse and dingle,
And heard her penny jingle
Bouncing in her purse,
Its bounce was music to her ear.
She ran and ran
As if she feared some goblin man
Dogged her with gibe or curse
Or something worse:
But not one goblin skurried after,
Nor was she pricked by fear;
The kind heart made her windy-paced
That urged her home quite out of breath with chaste
And inward laughter,
She cried “Laura,” up the garden,
“Did you miss me?
Come and kiss me.
Never mind my bruises,
Hug me, kiss me, suck my juices
Squeezed from goblin fruits for you,
Goblin pulp and goblin dew.
Eat me, drink me, love me;
Laura, make much of me:
For your sake I have braved the glen
And had to do with goblin merchant men.”
Laura started from her chair,
Flung her arms up in the air,
Clutched her hair:
“Lizzie, Lizzie, have you tasted
For my sake the fruit forbidden?
Must your light like mine be hidden,
Your young life like mine be wasted,
Undone in mine undoing
And ruined in my ruin,
Thirsty, cankered, goblin-ridden?”—
She clung about her sister,
Kissed and kissed and kissed her:
Tears once again
Refreshed her shrunken eyes,
Dropping like rain
After long sultry drouth;
Shaking with aguish fear, and pain,
She kissed and kissed her with a hungry mouth.
Her lips began to scorch,
That juice was wormwood to her tongue,
She loathed the feast:
Writhing as one possessed she leaped and sung,
Rent all her robe, and wrung
Her hands in lamentable haste,
And beat her breast.
Her locks streamed like the torch
Borne by a racer at full speed,
Or like the mane of horses in their flight,
Or like an eagle when she stems the light
Straight toward the sun,
Or like a caged thing freed,
Or like a flying flag when armies run.
Swift fire spread thro’ her veins, knocked at her heart,
Met the fire smouldering there
And overbore its lesser flame;
She gorged on bitterness without a name:
Ah! fool, to choose such part
Of soul-consuming care!
Sense failed in the mortal strife:
Like the watch-tower of a town
Which an earthquake shatters down,
Like a lightning-stricken mast,
Like a wind-uprooted tree
Spun about,
Like a foam-topped waterspout
Cast down headlong in the sea,
She fell at last;
Pleasure past and anguish past,
Is it death or is it life?
Life out of death.
That night long Lizzie watched by her,
Counted her pulse’s flagging stir,
Felt for her breath,
Held water to her lips, and cooled her face
With tears and fanning leaves:
But when the first birds chirped about their eaves,
And early reapers plodded to the place
Of golden sheaves,
And dew-wet grass
Bowed in the morning winds so brisk to pass,
And new buds with new day
Opened of cup-like lilies on the stream,
Laura awoke as from a dream,
Laughed in the innocent old way,
Hugged Lizzie but not twice or thrice;
Her gleaming locks showed not one thread of grey,
Her breath was sweet as May
And light danced in her eyes.
Days, weeks, months, years
Afterwards, when both were wives
With children of their own;
Their mother-hearts beset with fears,
Their lives bound up in tender lives;
Laura would call the little ones
And tell them other early prime,
Those pleasant days long gone
Of not-returning time:
Would talk about the haunted glen,
The wicked, quaint fruit-merchant men,
Their fruits like honey to the throat
But poison in the blood;
(Men sell not such in any town:)
Would tell them how her sister stood
In deadly peril to do her good,
And win the fiery antidote:
Then joining hands to little hands
Would bid them cling together,
“For there is no friend like a sister
In calm or stormy weather;
To cheer one on the tedious way,
To fetch one if one goes astray,
To lift one if one totters down,
To strengthen whilst one stands.”
#1 http://poestories.com/read/blackcat
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Sorry, I forgot to mark my entry as “international.”
1. The Master, Edgar Allan Poe and my favorite poem by him, Annabel Lee:
It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;–
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.
She was a child and I was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea,
But we loved with a love that was more than love–
I and my Annabel Lee–
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud by night
Chilling my Annabel Lee;
So that her high-born kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.
The angels, not half so happy in Heaven,
Went envying her and me:–
Yes! that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of a cloud, chilling
And killing my Annabel Lee.
But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we–
Of many far wiser than we-
And neither the angels in Heaven above,
Nor the demons down under the sea,
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:–
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And the stars never rise but I see the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling, my darling, my life and my bride,
In her sepulchre there by the sea–
In her tomb by the side of the sea.
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Anything by Baudelaire:
THE DANCE OF DEATH
by: Charles Baudelaire
ARRYING bouquet, and handkerchief, and gloves,
Proud of her height as when she lived, she moves
With all the careless and high-stepping grace,
And the extravagant courtesan’s thin face.
Was slimmer waist e’er in a ball-room wooed?
Her floating robe, in royal amplitude,
Falls in deep folds around a dry foot, shod
With a bright flower-like shoe that gems the sod.
The swarms that hum about her collar-bones
As the lascivious streams caress the stones,
Conceal from every scornful jest that flies,
Her gloomy beauty; and her fathomless eyes
Are made of shade and void; with flowery sprays
Her skull is wreathed artistically, and sways,
Feeble and weak, on her frail vertebrae.
O charm of nothing decked in folly! they
Who laugh and name you a Caricature,
They see not, they whom flesh and blood allure,
The nameless grace of every bleached, bare bone,
That is most dear to me, tall skeleton!
Come you to trouble with your potent sneer
The feast of Life! or are you driven here,
To Pleasure’s Sabbath, by dead lusts that stir
And goad your moving corpse on with a spur?
Or do you hope, when sing the violins,
And the pale candle-flame lights up our sins,
To drive some mocking nightmare far apart,
And cool the flame hell lighted in your heart?
Fathomless well of fault and foolishness!
Eternal alembic of antique distress!
Still o’er the curved, white trellis of your sides
The sateless, wandering serpent curls and glides.
And truth to tell, I fear lest you should find,
Among us here, no lover to your mind;
Which of these hearts beat for the smile you gave?
The charms of horror please none but the brave.
Your eyes’ black gulf, where awful broodings stir,
Brings giddiness; the prudent reveller
Sees, while a horror grips him from beneath,
The eternal smile of thirty-two white teeth.
For he who has not folded in his arms
A skeleton, nor fed on graveyard charms,
Recks not of furbelow, or paint, or scent,
When Horror comes the way that Beauty went.
O irresistible, with fleshless face,
Say to these dancers in their dazzled race:
“Proud lovers with the paint above your bones,
Ye shall taste death, musk scented skeletons!
Withered Antinoüs, dandies with plump faces,
Ye varnished cadavers, and grey Lovelaces,
Ye go to lands unknown and void of breath,
Drawn by the rumour of the Dance of Death.
From Seine’s cold quays to Ganges’ burning stream,
The mortal troupes dance onward in a dream;
They do not see, within the opened sky,
The Angel’s sinister trumpet raised on high.
In every clime and under every sun,
Death laughs at ye, mad mortals, as ye run;
And oft perfumes herself with myrrh, like ye
And mingles with your madness, irony!”
Hi, I’ve done all except (1) cos I’m lousy at poems! Please throw my name in the hat! Thanks!
:o) Tamsyn (international)
tamsyn5@yahoo.com
Hi to all. 1. On October 31, win the fun goes to rest, it’s the night of Halloween win fun is at it’s best! Pretty jackolanterns glow everywhere that you go it’s the night of Halloween when fun is at it’s best. I’ve either heard this or sang this when I was a child way back when. Lisa D.
1. Night time comes quickly, the house creaks with low moans.
Cocoa and marshmallows warm our autumn-chilled bones.
Big bright orange pumpkins and black cats so pretty,
Apples from the valley import to the city.
Casper and Wendy ride in on her broom.
They brighten this night which had tried to bring gloom.
Boy scouts help merry hearts with changing traditions.
Good turns and safety for wholesome conditions.
Big bully goblins pout, not getting their kicks
With horror ax pictures and ghastly ghost tricks.
If scary is mainstream for this holiday
Then label them off-beat who drive scares away.
Spooks crash on in as pretend doctors and nurses,
One as an angel who pores Bible verses.
Pirates say “Aye” with an apple cider toast.
Jack O’ Lanterns shine with the smiles that they boast.
A bad witch makes progress if she stirs a new pot
Of sweet herbal sauces and spices real hot,
And washes her hair ’til it’s squeaky and clean
And shouts to you now, ‘Have a Joyous Halloween!’
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Hopefully I can sit here and finish everything to day. This flu is mean!!!
Heidi S.
Whenever I think of a scary poem it is THE RAVEN that comes to mind.
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susan L.
I found a poem that is on scaryplace.com that is about what one person finds as romance the other being might not have any romance but more of a payment plan in mind. The poem is called The Soul Stealer by Kay Imlay Woodbury. I thought it was perfectly creepy and a great reminder for all of us romance readers to take heed.
I also was able to vote for an author, but unable to do any of the other tasks since I have to get ready for work!!!
ok I already posted my fav poem but forgot to include that I also did the other things
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1. I’m not too into poetry so my fave would probably be The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe (so I won’t post it because others already have)
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throuthehaze at gmail dot com
2. Commented in Jennifer Rardin’s Release Party
3. VOTED
4. RSVPEd
5. RSVPEd
6. Participated in the Carol Nelson Douglas contest
7. Participated in the Keri Arthur Release Party Contest
8. Participated in the It’s A Dead (wo)Man’s Party! for MaryJanice Davidson
1:Yup, Yup. I’m a silly billy when it comes to halloween!!
The Addams Family Theme Tune Lyrics
They’re creepy and they’re kooky,
Mysterious and spooky,
They’re all together ooky,
The Addams Family.
Their house is a museum
Where people come to see ‘em
They really are a scream
The Addams Family.
(Neat)
(Sweet)
(Petite)
So get a witches shawl on
A broomstick you can crawl on
We’re gonna pay a call on
The Addams Family.
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My favorite creepy poem is Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s “Christabel” one of the greatest unfinished and one of the first vampire poems written (in my opinion anyway). Here is a link to the poem http://etext.virginia.edu/stc/Coleridge/poems/Christabel.html
Jess S.