Showing posts with label supernatural poems. Show all posts
Showing posts with label supernatural poems. Show all posts

Wednesday, August 28, 2024

The Hermit's House

 

by Brett Rutherford

So he has raised himself a house—
a squat and brooding carpenter it was
who strung these clapboards in their gambreled
eaves! The twisted spines of elder trees
lean on its walls suggestively, a clutch
of branches fit to snap the heads of birds—
whatever the month they issue the brittleness
of dried-up leaves, to somersault
the wagon-rutted walk, and pile
in bottomless heaps on his untended
lawn. That the gate remains open
is not so much a mark of tenancy
as hingeless ruin, and though
a charcoal breath and sputterings
emerge at the chimney top,
the lampless porch and broken steps
alike suggest abandonment. But here,
thrown up in rustless height to a slit
of reluctant sun, the postman’s box
opens its mouth at the haunted edge,
spells out his name, encourages messages,
a beacon of normalcy at Usher’s door,
beyond whose mundane purpose his house
broods low like a gorged and sleeping owl.
It is only a house among houses,
a curious blotch on a cheery Victorian street.
 
There is no tarn, no hound,
no family crypt,
and yet these swollen clapboards tell
of darker dreams in eldritch books within.
The panes admit no sunlight, I see,
but the moon and the Pole Star’s rays
beam down through cobwebbed corridors.
One window’s barred, the room beyond
an empty blackness, a hermit cell
whose necromantic occupant
has razored off his eyelids
to watch in perpetual wakefulness
for those who will come from the outer orbs,
streaming down ravenous to slay and feed
on all that lives — save him alone.
 
When all this happens, he plans to serve
narcotic tea and delicate pastries
to the arrived new gods. Amid the nods
and smiles, some wry jest he offers up
will prompt a water of eye, a clap
of one tentacle against another,
and he will take his place among them.

Sunday, November 5, 2023

The Goodman's Croft

 

by Brett Rutherford
 
Not every virgin was ravished
when the marauders came
in their tall ships: a few
were consigned to sacrifice,
well-fed until the day
they fed a hecatomb
reared up for the hungry gods.
 
In Scotland,
even among the poorest farmers,
one spot that might
have been planted is bare.
And not a rocky place, mind you,
but a fair edge or corner
with sun and soil the rye
might be a blessing in.
 
That patch
is called the Goodman's Croft.
Since too much greed
attracts the Devil,
who with a nod and a wink
is called the "Goodman,"
the proof is in the vacancy,
where such weeds as chance,
or demons or the fairy-folk
wish to implant, grow high
and rank until the witches
on Hallow-night, harvest
for broom and cauldron.
 
Fail to do this, a less-than-tithe
to dark forces, and all
the crops will fail. Why risk
starvation when the Devil
asks so little, just one bald spot
where spiders and leprous things
run riot? Avert the plow,
unfurrowed and seedless,
let Goodman's Croft be!
 
 

Wednesday, October 5, 2022

St. John's Eve

 by Brett Rutherford

Gather the spores of ferns
on St. John’s Eve,
when fireflies
and will o’ wisps
are wont to flicker.

Sprinkle the brown dust of them
about your cap and cloak,
and you may dance
with the elves and fairies
invisible, and 
unmolested; reach

into the cache
of buried treasure
and bring up gold,

or even, if such
is your desire, stand
at any crossroad
and converse
with suicides.

Last, walk home
slowly and silently,
lest you alarm the hens
or rouse a dog’s
suspicions.

Fern seed shaken
from off your garb,
greet then the dawn
with a secret smile.



Wednesday, August 31, 2022

September Sarabande

by Brett Rutherford

It is the night most singular,
alone of all the nights of the year,
when those who were loved
and those who truly loved them,
drift as ghosts in the grim dark.

Night-blooming jasmine smothers them,
as a blue moon makes blind their eyes.
Cruel fate torments them. No fingers
touch as, back to back, they dance
a silent sarabande, eyes to the ground.

The names they whisper, yearning,
are drowned by the night-sky’s wail,
as constellations from their dread
seducers flee, or from the wrath
of jealousy — even stars are denied
the company that most pleases them.

At dawn, they resume their places,
placid and cold beneath the ground,
side-by-side with detested partners,
head-to-foot with dreaded sires.

As burning sun warms up the stones
and the names and vows engraved
upon them, the dance is forgotten.
By name, by date, for all of time,
love’s crucifixion grinds on.

  

La sarabande de septembre

C'est la nuit la plus singulière,
seul de toutes les nuits de l'année,
quand ceux qui étaient aimés
et ceux qui les aimaient vraiment,
dérivent, fantômes dans l'obscurité sinistre.

Le jasmin nocturne les étouffe;
une lune bleue aveugle leurs yeux.
Le destin cruel les tourmente.
Pas de doigts toucher comme,
dos à dos, ils dansent une sarabande
silencieuse, les yeux baissés.

Les noms qu'ils chuchotent, désireux,
sont noyés par les gémissements
du ciel nocturne, tout comme
les constellations lointaines fuient
les ruses d'un séducteur,
ou la colère de jalousie
— même les étoiles sont refusées
les compagnons qui leur plaisent le plus.

A l'aube, ils reprennent leurs places,
placide et froid sous terre,
côte à côte avec des partenaires détestés,
cap à pied avec des parents redoutés.

Alors que le soleil brûlant
réchauffe les pierres
et les noms et vœux qui y sont gravés,
la danse est oubliée.

Par nom, par date, pour toujours,
la crucifixion de l'amour continue.

 

 

Saturday, August 27, 2022

Nocturne

by Brett Rutherford

Wordless, he came.
No knock, no bell,
no warning phone call.
The door just opened,
and there he stood.

Weary he was
from long traveling.
A backpack, overstuffed,
dropped to the floor.

As I said, "Welcome!
So many years!
Sit down for tea!"
he sat.

And tea was made, 
bread torn
by two strong hands,
fruit, yogurt, nuts,
whatever in hand
that required no stove
at three in the morning.

Not much was said.
He had been somewhere
you would not want to go,
and this is where he fled.

"Go back to sleep," he said.
He lay beside me, damp
with the storm he had walked in;
he smelled of ashes, lilac,
apples, and wild cherry.

Asleep, he wept.
He was half over me,
shuddering.
I tasted tears
and the cold rain
still rilled from off
the fringe of blond hair
that covered my face.

He jolted awake.
"I dreamt," he told me,
"and in my dream
I was with you,
and weeping.
And now I wake
and find myself here!"

I traced with one hand
upon his cheek,
the salt line of tears.
His hand stopped me,
covering mine,

as each of us made sure
the other was not
some phantom.

"Oh, stay!" I cried.
"Wake not somewhere
above and beyond
this moment!"

Wordless, he came.
The door just opened.
His backpack, overstuffed,
still sat in the kitchen.

He stayed — he stays.
He is here for keeps, he says.
no matter how many
years ago he died.


Saturday, August 13, 2022

Thirteen Scorpions




by Brett Rutherford


     A Monologue of The Emperor Qian Long (1711-1799)

I bid you welcome
to the Summer Palace,
to this, my garden
behind the Hall of Paintings,
and now that you,
Father of the Jesuits,
have learned enough Chinese
to dine in my presence,
we shall dispense with bowing,
kowtowing, and the like.

We can speak now,
man-to-man,
though it best be said
as god to man
for unlike your god
who is infinitely
receding, I am here.

I am the Son of Heaven.
For as long as I can recall
I was the Son of Heaven.
Father and Grandfather
Yong Zheng and Kang Xi
thought themselves so,
but they were merely
openers of the way;
they conquered and pacified,
thrust Manchu virtue
into the soft Han underside,
gave steel
where only bamboo
had sufficed.

Truly, I am the most
interesting person
who has ever lived
(or so the eunuchs
daily remind me).
I have composed,
or signed my name to
some forty thousand
poems; well-schooled
in martial arts,
I could break a man
in two, bare-handed.

I hunt. The deer tremble.
I make war. Unruly tribes
flee back to their borders.
My name and seal
are on ten thousand vases.
My visage has been painted
by European as well as Han.
My armies have gone as far
as Lhasa, whose Dalai Lama
bows to me —
                        What’s that?
Disaster in Burma? Vietnam
refusing to bend the knee?
You are impertinent, Holy Father —
time will tell — but here,
the servants come with tea,
dainties and dumplings.

Let us leave politics, and speak
of other things. You know,
I have learned to speak Tibetan,
and their Yellow Church priests
shall be in charge of my tomb
when Heaven takes me.

But tell me true, Jesuit Father,
how just as Manchu conquered Han
yet all of China has ravished me
with art and music and poetry
so that I scarcely have time for war,
does not your little god pall
before the sight of our mountains,
the mists on the Yellow River?
You eat like a Chinaman. I see
the way you eye that eunuch
(I will send him ’round
with the rest of the dumplings
if that pleases you? It does?)

Is China not
the world’s true center? Not Rome!
Although I ban your faith
and god, and god’s wife, and son,
and those ever-bleeding saints
are not permitted here — you stay.

You collect our pottery,
Song, Tang, Yuan, and Ming.
Calligraphy eludes you
and yet two hundred scrolls
of painted landscapes
have found their way
into the Jesuit dwelling.
Does China not always win,
like a great concubine,
by merely standing by in beauty?

Now, walk this way with me —
hand me the cricket jar,
Old Chen! — and we shall see
in this otherwise barren
rock garden, one standing stone.
gongshi, we call these —
how weathered and worn
and full of cavities it is!
Step up to the boundary
of crushed cinnabar
and look close! They come!
They come! Cringe not,
for the thirteen scorpions
are bound to the stone
and the gravel around it.
It is their universe.

Wonder you may
how I have ruled
for sixty years; how none
have raised a hand against me
and succeeded.

One duke, one general,
one martial arts fanatic,
two who called themselves
my brothers and blood-princes,
four who put up banners
and called me usurper:
see how they scurry
away from my shadow!
Emirs and khans and kings,
four I did not behead or slice
now wriggle here and rip
at another’s bodies
with fangs and venom’d tails.

The one on top? You know
I had three empresses, consorts
fifteen, and half a dozen
concubines. Only one was bad,
and there she basks. Nothing
would please her more than progeny.
A concubine
the only female on an island
with twelve male reprobates.
They will have nothing
to do with her. Ironic, no?

They will go on this way
forever, so long
as my hand feeds them
now and then.
Watch, as I lift this jar
that contains their dinner,
as I rattle the lid
just ever so slightly,
like cats they come running.

Step back — the cinnabar
line is poison to them
and they cannot pass it.
Old Chen, come hold
the Jesuit Father up.
He seems a little dizzy.
Is your taste too fine
to witness thirteen scorpions
fight over and eat
a solitary cricket?
It is only an insect.
It is their favorite food.

The dumplings, perhaps,
have made you sleepy.
Rest on this garden seat.
Is this not like
the place you call Purgatory,
where evil-doers reside
on a mount of their iniquities?
Just such a thing, in miniature,
a Daoist master made for me.

Come, take a look
as I uncover the victim.
What say you? Empty?
Why so it is.
Look deeper, Father
of the foreign devils’ god.
Slough off your priestly
robes, your cross and jewelry.
Do you not feel the change?
Catch him, old Chen!

I am the Son of Heaven.
I have always been
the Son of Heaven.
I am the most interesting man
who has ever lived.

And you —
     whom I hold
     in my hand and toss
     into the hungry horde —
you
are a cricket.

 







Tuesday, August 3, 2021

From Michael Drayton's Nimphidia (1627) - Fleeing from Puck



MICHAEL DRAYTON (1563-1631)

These two excerpts are from Michael Drayton’s 1627 short epic poem, Nimphidia, concerned entirely with the jealousy of Fairy King Oberon over Queen Mab’s supposed infidelity with one “Pigwiggin.” This poet friend of Shakespeare and Ben Jonson is a worthy Elizabethan, and the spells and curses and descriptions of fairy coaches and weaponry in Nimphidia are a delight. Drayton also wrote long narrative poems on English history, and a multi-volume topographic work, Polyolbion, describing the landscape and historical landmarks of Britain. For these two excerpts from Nimphidia, I have modernized some spellings (mostly leaving verbs alone) and I have here and there made silent corrections for clarity in a few lines that did not make sense to today’s reader.

Blaming the Fairies

This Palace standeth in the Air,

By Necromancy placed there,

That it no Tempests needs to fear,

     Which way so e’er it blow it.

And somewhat Southward tow’rd the Noon,

Whence lies a way up to the Moon,

And thence the Fayrie can as soon

     Pass to the earth below it.


The Walls of Spiders’ legs are made,

Well mortised and finely laid,

He was the master of his Trade

     Who curiously that built:

The Windows are the eyes of Cats,

And for the Roof, instead of Slats,

Is cover’d with the skins of Bats,

     With Moonshine that are gilt.


Hence Oberon him sport to make,

(Their rest when weary mortals take)

And none but only Fayries wake,

     Descendeth for his pleasure.

And Mab his merry Queen by night

Bestrides young Folks that lie upright, (1)

(In elder Times the Mare that hight) (2)

     Which plagues them out of measure.


Hence Shadows, seeming Idle shapes,

Of little frisking Elves and Apes,

To Earth do make their wanton scapes,

     As hope of pastime hastes them:

Which maids think on the Hearth they see,

When Fires well near consumed be,

Their dancing Hayes by two and three, (3)

     Just as their Fancy casts them.


These make our Girls their sluttery rue,

By pinching them both black and blue,

And put a penny in their shoe,

     The house for cleanly sweeping:

And in their courses make that Round,

In Meadows, and in Marshes found,

Of them so call’d the Fayrie ground,

     Of which they have the keeping.


Thus when a Child haps to be got,

Which after proves an Idiot,

When Folk perceive it thriveth not,

     The fault therein to smother:

Some silly doting brainless Calf,

That understands things by the half,

Say that the Fayrie left this Elfe.




Queen Mab Pursued by Puck

In comes Nimphidia, and doth cry,

My Sovereign for your safety fly,

For there is danger but too nigh,

     I posted to forewarn you:

The King hath sent Hobgoblin out,  (4)

To seek you all the Fields about,

And of your safety you may doubt,

     If he but once discern you.


When like an uproar in a Town,

Before them every thing went down,

Some tore a Ruff, and some a Gown,

     ’Gainst one another jostling:

They flew about like Chaff i’ the wind,

For haste some left their Masks behind;

Some could not stay their Gloves to find,

     There never was such bustling.


Forth ran they by a secret way,

Into a brake that near them lay;

Yet much they doubted there to stay,

    Lest Hob should hap to find them:

He had a sharp and piercing sight,

All one to him the day and night,

And therefore were resolved by flight,

 To leave this place behind them.


At length one chanc’d to find a Nut,

In th’ end of which a hole was cut,

Which lay upon a Hazel root,

     There scatt’red by a Squirrel:

Which out the kernel gotten had;

When quoth this Fay: dear Queen be glad,

Let Oberon be ne’er so mad,

     I’ll set you safe from peril.



Come all into this Nut (quoth she)

Come closely in, be rul’d by me,

Each one may here a chooser be,

     For room ye need not wrestle:

Nor need ye be together heaped;

So one by one therein they crept,

And lying down they soundly slept,

     And safe as in a Castle.


Nimphidia that this while doth watch,

Perceiv’d if Puck the Queen should catch

That he should be her over-match,

     Of which she well bethought her;

Found it must be some powerful Charm,

The Queen against him that must arm,

Or surely he would doe her harm,

     For thoroughly he had sought her.


And listening if she aught could hear,

That her might hinder, or might fear:

But finding still the coast was clear,

     Nor creature had descried her;

Each circumstance and having scanned,

She came thereby to understand,

Puck would be with them out of hand

     When to her Charm she hid her:


And first her Fern seed doth bestow,

The kernel of the Mistletoe:

And here and there as Puck should go,

     With terror to affright him:

She Night-shade strews to work him ill,

Therewith her Vervayne (5) and her Dill,

That hindreth Witches of their will,

     Of purpose to despite him.


Then sprinkles she the juice of Rue, (6)

That groweth underneath the Yew: (7)

With nine drops of the midnight dew,

     From Lunary distilling:

The Molewarp's (8) brain mixed therewithal;

And with the same the Pismire’s gall, (9)

For she in nothing short would fall;

     The Fayrie was so willing.


Then thrice under a Briar doth creep,

Which at both ends was rooted deep,

And over it three times she leaped;

     Her Magic much availing:

Then on Proserpina (10) doth call,

And so upon her spell doth fall,

Which here to you repeat I shall,

     Not in one tittle failing.


By the croaking of the Frog;

By the howling of the Dog;

By the crying of the Hog,

     Against the storm arising;

By the Evening Curfew bell;

By the doleful dying knell,

O let this my direful Spell,

     Hob, hinder thy surprising.


By the Mandrake’s (11) dreadful groans;

By the Lubrican’s (12) sad moans;

By the noise of dead men’s bones,

     In Charnel houses rattling:

By the hissing of the Snake,

The rustling of the fire-Drake, (13)

I charge thee thou this place forsake,

     Nor of Queene Mab be prattling.


By the Whirlwind’s hollow sound,

By the Thunder’s dreadful stound, (14)

Yells of Spirits under ground,

     I charge thee not to fear us:

By the Screech-owl’s dismal note,

By the Black Night-Raven’s throat,

I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy Coat

     With thorns if thou come near us,


Her Spell thus spoke she stepped aside,

And in a Chink herself doth hide,

To see thereof what would betide,

     For she alone doth mind him:

When presently she Puck espies,

And well she marked his gloating eyes,

How under every leaf he spies,

     In seeking still to find them.


But once the Circle got within,

The Charms to work do straight begin,

     And he was caught as in a Gin; (15)

For as he thus was busy,

A pain he in his Head-peace feels,

Against a stubbed Tree he reels,

And up went poor Hobgoblin’s heels,

     Alas his brain was dizzy.


At length upon his feet he gets,

Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets,

And as again he forward sets,

     And through the Bushes scrambles;

A Stump doth trip him in his pace,

Down comes poor Hob upon his face,

And lamentably tore his case,

     Amongst the Briars and Brambles.


A plague upon Queen Mab, quoth he,

And all her Maids where e’er they be,

I think the Devil guided me,

     To seek her so provoked.

Where stumbling at a piece of Wood,

He fell into a ditch of mud,

Where to the very Chin he stood,

     In danger to be choked.


Now worse than e’er he was before:

Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar;

That wak’d Queene Mab who doubted sore

     Some Treason had been wrought her:

Until Nimphidia told the Queen

What she had done, what she had seen,

Who then had well-near crack’d her spleen

     With very extreme laughter.

— Extracted and modernized from Nimphidia (1627).


NOTES

That lie upright. Persons who sleep on their backs rather than turned to the side are more subject to visitations by fairies, incubi, and succubi.

Mare that hight. That was called Nightmare.

Dancing the Haye. In a winding and sinuous movement, in this case flames or sparks weaving around in a burnt-out log or coal.

Hobgoblin. Another name for Puck; also Robin Good-fellow.

5 Vervayne. Verbena. Sacred leaves or twigs from laurel, olive, or myrtle.

6 Rue. Ruta graveolens, an evergreen with bitter leaves.

7 Yew. A tree with dark green foliage often planted in graveyards.

8 Molewarp or Mouldwarp. Old French and Teutonic name for the common

garden mole.

9 Pismire’s gall. A foul-smelling extract from an anthill, mostly formic acid.

10 Prosperpine, or Persephone. In this instance, in her guise as the wife of Pluto in

the underworld.

11 Mandrake. The root of the mandrake is shaped like a human body, and was

used in magic spells.

12 Lubrican. Leprechaun, from Irish luchorpan. An unhappy pygmy sprite, said to

be always engaged in an unsuccessful repair of a shoe, and to carry in its purse a

single shilling.

13 Fire-drake. Most likely a reference to the mythical salamander, a lizard-like

creature said to be capable of living in fire.

14 Stound. A violent noise, a shock, producing a state of amazement.

15 Gin. In this instances, a snare or net.


FROM THE FORTHCOMING ANTHOLOGY, TALES OF TERROR, SUPPLEMENT 1.

Sunday, December 13, 2020

The Plural Visitation


 

by Brett Rutherford

Now cut that out! I have weathered a lot
of discord in this urban arena:
the fenced-in barcarolle of neighbor dogs,
the rising and falling of conga drums,
the melodious yowl of cats in heat,
gunshots or backfires, airplanes and truck-horns,
the underground rattle-roll from tunnels,
the swell and deep shudder made manifest
by continental drift — somehow I have slept
through all of that. So now it is you:

The rag and wraith of a banshee I have spied
before (one blighted Hallow’d night I watched
one extricate itself from a tangle
of unyielding shrubbery), but that was
you in the singular, your lonesome cry
dissolving to a wisp of midnight wind.

This Brooklyn visitation is plural!
Twelve pairs of bony hands reach out to me,
from a hen-pack dozen of whirling shrouds.
Faces, if you can call them that, jut out
with insect eyes or blobs of black jelly.

Their twelve-part chorusing, from ruddy bass
to the highest squeak-screech of violins,
piles the diabolus in musica
and partners every howling note chromatic
with its half-step brother, an elephant
falling on every organ key at once.
All this, and on and on for hours, all this
from your wingbeats thrust into my window.

Who sent you? I am not even Irish!
Therefore, these whistles and yells cannot be
addressed to me, you howling telegram!
You have the wrong building entirely.
The errant Kelly, the drunken O’Brien, 
Leary with all his guns and bombs, have moved.

And why, I ask, come you in committee,
the way you dropped en masse for Spanish Flu,
or the starvelings of potato famine?
Oh, friends have died, and some died horribly,
but one by one they left me, unsummoned
by anything that tread night’s canopy.
When my time comes, I will see a raven,
a bard’s beckoning, a stately ibis.

Again, no son of Celt or Eire sleeps here.
The cat is Siamese, for goodness’ sake!
So gather up your mealy, dustmop heads
and flap on off to somebody else’s
premonition of death, you silly birds!


Wednesday, November 13, 2019

The Were-Raven, Part 1


by Brett Rutherford

    Adapted from an ancient Danish Ballad

1
The Raven began his journey at dusk;
by day he never flew. By rise of moon
in fullest orb he traveled far; by dark
of moon he fled to the bats’ company

in cave and belfry and the mountain pine.
So wide of wing was he, so baleful-eyed,
it was an ill-fortune to come upon
his perch, his roost or his dark sleeping place.

Time and again to one spot he fluttered —
a terror to lark and dove, a terror
to all who sang vespers and prayed Amens —
he came to where, in one lonely bower
the lady Ermeline was wont to weep.

She saw him not, although his shadow long
cast double penumbrae in moon and star-
light, tall as a man, so deep in mourning
was the lady whose eyes ne’er upward glanced.

And so, ill-omened, un-noted, he flew
away, South to the dread desert’s sand-verge,
North, to the last ice-pack of the Boreal Pole,
up, to the place above cloud-tops where snow

sings crystal anthems and the air is thin,
and still, from everywhere, his corvid eye
followed the downward glance of Ermeline
as she embroidered, sighed, and put aside
her day-time’s dull handiwork. Her hands shook;
she touched for forehead for signs of fever,
and finding none, turned to her lonely bed.

She slept, and as he watched her distantly,
another hovered, reached out a strangling
hand, and snapped it back, self-stung with conscience.
Whatever it was, it watched him watching
her, and slithered off, a serpent of mist.

One night, when moon was full, and stars were right,
and the garden was diamond-bright with night’s
aurora of fireflies and Northern lights,
and Ermeline walked alone as ever,
he found the courage to speak: “Tell me true,
fair and alone, my Lady Ermeline,
why do you linger in the chill garden
to shed so many tears? Compete with dew,
or a raincloud to water these flagstones?”

Fair Ermeline started, but saw not him.
“Who are you, Stranger, to dare address me
so from darkness? Two eyes I see, but all
the rest of you is shrouded in shadow.” —

“Fear not,” the Raven stepped now forth. “I asked
why to the world’s weeping you add the more,
when one so fair is made for life and joying.
Who have you lost?” he paused. “A brother dear?
Or mother or father, or some beloved?” —

“Raven, dire friend, thou messenger of Death,
have you of all the feathered host come now
to mock me, or to hear my tale of woe,
because a maiden’s sorrows fill thy beak?”

“Admit me to thy side a while,” he said,
but let me perch upon yon pediment
so that your whisperings and my coarse caw
shall be as solemn as confessional.” —

“Am I thus doomed, wild Raven! If thou art
my confidant and confessor, who next
have I to counsel with but crow and kite,
and the malevolent sea cormorant?” —

“I will remain till thou hast told thy tale.
More than night-bird am I, but less than man.
I mean to know your sorrow’s own story.” —
Her eyes met his. — “I will tell all to you.”


-- to be continued --