"...easy is the descent to Avernus: night and day the door of gloomy Dis stands open; but to recall thy steps and pass out to the upper air, this is the task, this is the toil!"
VIRGIL, Aenid, VI,126-29.
I lay me down upon the grave I put a lover in
I know love is just another word for suffering.
Damp earth still disturbed from my shovelling,
Clings to the guilt happy drugs should be smothering.
I gaze up at lead sky full of carrion hovering
Like silent ghosts above the grave I put a lover in.
My heart is the tomb of a dead thing
Empty as the belly of a Zeppelin,
A lone hive-drone denied by its brethren,
Barren as the womb sewn with seed of Nephilim.
Sunk in soft loam while the bells in my head ring
Down to where my heart is the tomb of a dead thing.
Stone by stone behold cenotaphs rising
From the quarry of a soul, demonkind thrive in.
Towers high in a mind despair sent diving
Deep in the pit dug to bury grim lies in.
Its shadow extends across a lost horizon
Built bone by bone like a cenotaph rising.
Dark Sun flickers like tallow flame guttering
Doused by a cloud of moth-wings fluttering.
Stark flesh scythed by a chitin swarm scuttling;
Pincer ripped skin –sting of mandibles burrowing.
Beyond the pale frame of frail pain worrying
Dark Son shivers like tallow flame guttering.
I kiss the soil upon the grave I put a lover in
Although love is just a crack to bury heaven in.
Our tongues are just another way of measuring
How far we stretch when the time comes for severing.
Oh! there was banshee howl – bad mojo bellowing!
Hope cast adrift on a sea of dead reckoning!
Hallowed ground split, a claw emerged beckoning
On the day I joined the grave I put a lover in.
Author notes
Optimally envisaged as a recitation intoned from throbbing gristle with sonorous chant to the beat of Boo-Yaa Tribe´s stirring rendition of "Kreepin` Through Yo Hood" this lamentable dirge-person-perspective was undertaken with some trepidation.
The image is a snippet of the renowned tomb belonging to Charles Pigeon inventor of the non-combustible gas lamp, residing in Montparnasse cemetary, Paris. A gentleman no doubt well accustomed to exhalations of hot air akin to those declaimed by distraught dillettants of lofty gothic verse brought low.
Restores the Fun in Funereal? [Reward: double points]
Comments
1 - 19 of 19
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Very Poe-etic
gG,
Shades of Edgar Allen Poe saith the raven.
Certainly one of your best gG.
The refrain "the grave I put a lover in"
mixes a great many emotions very well. An xcellent refrain on which to hang the rest of the poem.
Some of the rhymes, at first reading, seem forced; yet if you ignore the superstructure, a Zeppelin [except that made of Lead] is insubstantially hollow. And, Nephilim rhymed with Zeppelin gave me a good laugh.
Why did you repeat 'cenotaph rising' ?
I found the shift in form in the last two stanzas puzzling; but not really detracting.
[A gothic poem indeed; but is that Visigoth or Ostrogoth?] Seriously, a very worthwhile effort.
Regards,
JG
. Rewarded 8
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Cheers Mr G!
Though unworthy of any just comparison with the southern gentleman you mention, it would unlikely have occured in such fashion without early immersions into that fabulously troubled author´s inscribed world.
Though may I say I find Sheridan Le Fanu to be the apotheosis of the Gothic genre in prose at least.
As to the faint echo of Poe reiteration (as in The Raven) each 6th stanza line attempts to reflect the intitial opening line.
Each stanza shifts dynamics in rhythm as in a song (aswell as mood like J.Cash´s Walk the Line).
Essentially this is a lyric (soon to be released on CD) with Gothic-poetic pretensions and a willful disregard for syllable counts.
Only the final stanza alternates structurally from the others in that it possesses 8 lines and shifts dynamics and mood halfway through.
Thanx again, mate.
gG
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Good Job!
This piece is extremely well written. The vocabulary and structure are absolutely appropriate, not to mention very rich. It seems very soulful and therefor entirely realistic in that sense. Great job finding such good rhymes, since that can be such a hard and pesky little task. The only thing I didn't like was that every stanza was one rhyme, because I feel like by the end it got kind of old, but on the other hand you picked such fitting words that the rhyme was kind of in the background and not so noticeable. Great poem!. Rewarded 8
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Cheers Oxymoron270!
For your kind and cogent comment.
Music has been put to this and its being released on a compilation CD called "Miniatures" out in a month or two.
Appreciate your compliments as to the perspicacity of the verse and accept criticism as to the lengthiness of the trochee-entrenched weak-ending rhyme conceit throughout.
But that in this case is the metronomical imperitive driving the rhythm and it warms to hear that the rhyming drops into the background and waxes sub-rosa (so as not to spoil the atmos too noticebly).
Cheers
gG
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Though notes suggest jest,
this appeared most strongly to be written from the heart. This is what it is to love someone so much that when they die, you die. I thought the lines were absolutely beautiful and very vivid in elucidating the depth of loss of one's soul mate. gG, this was excellent. There is an intensity here that suggests an incredible oneness with the lover described as lost, dead and buried. There was a lot of feeling in this from one so usually flip with his verbal genius. This was very pensive and deep. I really felt your care for the one you could never be without. I didn't feel that this was just an exercise, I felt emotion in this and I thought it was terrific. You always come off as impassive in your tone I've always thought. I felt that this had you invested in it and I enjoyed it's depth.
Nice work, gG.
Al
p.s. Only thing? Line four seems hincky, needs a tweak somewhere.
. Rewarded 8
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Kudos Plumeister!
For being as perceptive as ever. As you remark, my notes (a symbiote of the poem)are often flippant creating an emotionally apposite distance to the often personal, self-incised verse constituting the main body of the write.
Clowning around allays for me the embarrassing melodrama I tend to find exhibited in my work, when self-conciously presenting my scrawl to judicial perusal of my peers, despite the large sheen of comparative anonymity SP´s format entails.
Part and parcel of the persona inhabiting the mental make-up of a clown is the "Siamese homunculus twins" of tragedy AND humour. Besides I really can t take myself too seriously, Al. Although I do take my scribble WAAAY too seriously at times, to the detriment of my surroundings.
"..elucidating the depth of loss of one's soul mate."
Yepp. That was my design alright. Couldn t have put it better.
This piece and Dust Kisses represent perhaps a slightly altered approach to a theme I ve written (abtrusely?) about many times before. More accessible maybe?
I m too close to ascertain.
Hopefully despite my penchant for at times copious portions of hype-of-cant, badinage and wordplay, a true, honest, very real and highly relevant emotive core shines through to connect with a reader´s discernment (well, some readers at least!).
Otherwise I am essentially wasting my time with meaningless exercises (even though fluent flippancy is great fun I admit!).
I take much note of your astute and well-pondered words and heartwarming kudos, Al, and certainly the precious criticism implied.
Cheers!
Yeah, know what you mean with line four - its length and slightly out of kilter beat, might be curtailed by deleting "..happy..". I did so in the first rewrite, but...butbutbut. As in music there must be room for alternations to a sequential pattern. I recall us conversing in rewarding fashion on this very point:
Establish a pattern, then fuck it up with (preferably) subtlely skewed flaws. It avoids a too comfortable monotone for readers tempted to somnambulate their way through a piece (I am certainly NOT accusing you of doing so Erudite Al!). Anyway, you spotted one of the lines requiring continuous attention that has yet to achieve pure closure and who knows what will result when next the scalpel flicks in this direction.
Thanx Plumeister!
gG
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Hey gG,
I do the same thing. Sharing feelings is fey for us men and so we try to mitigate that angst with flippancy. But really, what is more manly than spilling your guts and lettin' it ride with a big "I don't give a $#!+ what you think about it, this is how I feel.."
I'm the same way, gG. Perhaps that's why women are so frustrated with us men. They have so much to say and we're always wanting to shut everything up.
Anyway, nice work, gG. I think you're brilliant and are by far one of my favorite reads here.
Al -
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Cheers Again Al!
Thanx for that and may I say both your work, your comments and those pearls of complimentary poetry you have graced my page with on occasion, have been boon and inspiration to my writing-development.
Rearguard as always
gG
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It sure does! Whodathotit!
I got interrupted in mid-reply that was as full of present-progressive verb forms as your own, inspired as they no doubt were, and all are as lost as the interred souls of this dirge. Just as well, while imitation, they say, is the highest form of flattery, such had not been its intention anyway.
I wanted to refer to a particular line and must now find it.
Ah!
"Beyond the pale frame of frail pain worrying"
That has to be the epitome of wordmanship!
A double rhyme in four words!
It also serves as proof of the leavening effect of wordplay no matter how depressing the thought that first impelled it!
To find fun in lugubrious events has to be the height of survival on a globe headed for predicted annihilation by 2012! The Aztec calendar ends there, while Nostradamus (unacquainted with Aztecs) ended his puzzle-prognostications there, dire predictions of climate change and drowning of coastal cities thereafter with the loss of glaciers and polar ice-caps, and rumbling in the Ring of Fire needs only an approaching asteroid's new crater to frighten the extreme-sport types and depress the rest of the drug-addicted populace!
Now, THERE we have a scenario to sink the teeth in! Knocks the socks off tombstones!
On that note of levity... pfft!
Kidding, I hope.
Terry
. Rewarded 8
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Hi Terry!
Shame to be bereft of one of your many eminently complimentary poetic echoes, Terry (and despite my, ahem, professional facade I am always flattered whenever I am graced with one!).
Thanx for highlighting the line: "Beyond the pale..." and for your kind words of judgement as to its facility. The rhyme aswell as the obverse litteration cast like a billowing silk shroud from a worn saying, kept well within contextual parameters (of death and suffering), to end in the twin meaning of concern (to worry) and the physical aspect (hyaenas worrying the meat from shanks of a cadaver) alluding to a subtle (frail) pain, an emotional affliction/desease in other words eating away at a corpse/moribund heart/health of a sickly soul/etc, or to put it simply: The corporeal devoured by the ethereal - which for me is in essence the core maxim of gothic tragedy. The Gothic seeks with beautiful horror to lure us away from our carnal complacency like the song of a siren compels mariners to their doom (or an apotheosis?).
If change requires disruption of status quo or chaos,then the direction change pursues is most efficaciously steered by shock of tragedies befallen - whether borne of Fate,Deity, Fluke or pure self-volition is another debate.
It lies past our comprehension - beyond the pale.
And you are quite right Terry, wordplay leavens even this bread-head!
Concerning your mention of fun found in lugubrity´s ambiguity I had a poem since removed titled Chacmool Hearts about an Aztec-take on 2012s culminating megadeath. Another "In the Kingdom of the Limbless the Monofilament is King" (disregarding the haywire homophonic bollox-preamble) is as you commented about glacial meltdown.
Countless other scribblings skimmed from Akashic Library memes cater to my inner quiverings of intimations revolving in skewed orbit around Armageddon. To fuel my paranoia I read unhealthy ammounts of apocalyptic litt.
But as in any alchemical equation (even my pathetic bunsen-burner bubble) the macrocosm reflects the microcosm - thereby the touchy-feely foppery of personal love-lorn pinings pithily portrayed in frilly phrase and wimpy word-weepery served as a lachrymose protagonist stewed in his own ghoulash of bile-spiced gore and/or inner ennui lusting for entropy - thanatos/deathwish.
Oops.
I fear I may have waxed loquacious with no edit-net to curtail me.
Please excuse this deleterious discharge, Terry, too much sugar. And thanx again for your generous comment.
Warmest regards
gGaagGaa
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the lord of darkness rides again
hey gG-your are definetely the prince of epic darkness. sorry but i could see no trace to the boo-ya-tribe riding. i'd put this right up there with, The
Creamation Of Sam McGee. This should be put put in high-school texts to give the kids a glimpse of things other than the boo-ya-tribe.
i thought love is just a crack to bury heaven in, is a brilliantly cynical line.
glad your back, even though you've been back
dave. Rewarded 8
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Howdy
I read "The Cremation.., mate. Great piece. Loved the forest of rhyme which gave an innocent, almost naive feel to a ghastly yet comical tale. Cheers for the tip.
gG -
Cheers Dave!
A beat can come from the most curious places and lead to the wierdest results. I owe Boo-Yaa the beat though assuredly nothing else. I shall be checking out the poem you mention, mate. Infact I ll do it right now. Thanx for the generosity of your stirling comment!
gGrimm
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Oh that Day Profundis! that Out-of-the-Depth he cries to the Dark Son! Seems this poet, this reader and Virgil all think alike: easier to dig down into personal bowels than to claw one's way back up again and face the terrible Surface, especially when what one has seen down there is "Barren as the womb sewn with seed of Nephilim..."
Brilliant. And that includes the sextets of like-sounding end-rhymes throughout, capped off at the final one with a clever Coda. This is music, Simon, finely composed, rich and emotional as a Tchaikovsky HighStrung Sextet - enough to ring the heart - a Souvenir, not de Florence, but de Pigeon, with a fine send-up of "distraught dillettants of lofty gothic verse brought low" - this poet is a humble and honest man, which this Archimedean reader has found. Eureka.
Lad. Rewarded 8
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My Gratitude, Lad
for a comment that would raise the most decomposed revenant from the funk of a "final" resting-place of self-pitying reverie! The Pigeon gas-lamp thing I found most appropriate as a symbol of air and light to juxtapose the sombre earth and tears of the grave. All the elements present. As Above So Below. Thanx for your generous review I shall cherish to the gra...well you know what I mean.
gG
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Gothic Gangsta!
Your usual accomplished self. Slick rhymes abounding here in the grip of the driving 'beat' you mention. It's inescapable. Gangsta rap meets Gothic mishap. Once again you avoid the market place with amazing dexterity and huge credit. No one will buy this record. But that doesn't mean it isn't brilliant. Depressing. But then so was Goodfellas.
. Rewarded 6
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But Surely...
...there´s a budding market of tender thugs weary of wanton expletives and self-aggrandizing balley ho? Who beneath bling veneers yearn for ethereal delights no homie nor butt-jiggling beeatch could provide?
No aging crimelords or crack-dealers sick of pimpin` rides for EmptyV inanities, poured into the receptive skulls of Generation Xcrement so adept at swallowing shit, with guilty consciences almost the size of their egos who are themselves receptive to passionate pining woven in tones whiny yet sensitive?
Well Sir, I believe there must be, just beyond the rise where the windmills beckon yonder - punk-ass-mo-fo players clamour for lilting lyre and gruesome romance!
No?
Well, there´s always the closet-necrophiles to fall back on I suppose, what with their surplus purchasing power - coin saved on wining, dining and contraceptives...
Why I´ll show ya. I´ll show ya all!
gG-Man-Bust-A-Cap-In-Yo-Ass!
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Rappy Christmas Bro!
What can ah say bro
'cept maybe ha ha
or
ho ho
it's Christmas dontcha kno
but I hear this shit don't go
down too well Stateside no mo
coz 'ho ho'
ain't pc any mo
on account of
apparently
the bitches think
we takin' a pop at them....
so...
Politically and poetically correct seasonal felicitations my friend! -
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Ding Dong Merrily On A High!
Merry XXXmas, Dear Comrade! Fantastic Santa pic on your colloquial hilarity recently posted. Must render comment soon!
Yo Ho Hoh
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