As darkness falls on towns on hallow e'en, The night that fosters youth to tricks and treats, I spy a child-like coven here convene To hunt and gather sweets from inky streets. Amid the tittle-tattle snickering The impishly costumed menagerie Creep from door-to-door cutely bickering About their monstrous garb imaginary. Their masks and capes broadcast their choice of beast But static outlines grin broadly upon Jack o'Lantern cackling like the deceased To conjure startling tales of fairy spawn.
The Jack o'Lantern: jail house of the wisp, Who stares from the empty husk through bore holes Scored with blunt knives in clear, straight lines so crisp To witness the life and times of all souls. Like an ancient genie in the bottle, Omnipotent but prisoner to squash. Ghostly light enshrined in gourd-a-mottle To illuminate, shining beams awash, Across taught sights of wonder wending free Through misting haze of gaseous flickering That birthed that brilliant sparkling detainee Now forced to suffer children's snickering.
Before it lounged in homely marrow cell The floating wisp was born upon swamp land. A torch that led those transfixed by its spell Unconsciously through unknown sites by hand And winding up on sheer cliff looking down To raging torrent far below their feet, When gripped by fear of falling to be drown, The guiding light is snuffed out in a beat. Now lost, the victim coaxed from safe path home By jealous wisp who never had true life, Is stuck until he spies the dawn's proud dome And dooms the wisp to mocking afterlife.
Poor wisp, not known to those that hallow e'en, Those treaters masked in vampiric aspect, Eyes blacked, skin bleached and grinning teeth so clean, Partnered with the mummies entrapped and bedecked In ragged cloth, reaching for those cursed souls, Like Witches and the Warlocks chanting spell And crazy clowns eating kids from potholes With ghosts and zombies crawling into hell. The wisp, curling within its flaming bowl, Lighting the pathway for tricksters to tread And feed upon the sweet loot that they stole Before the midnight screams with howling dread.
But I, who spied your splendour from afar, Will tell the tale of wisp light dancing proud, A light that brightens like a shooting star And detonates with the force of a storm cloud. That tempter of tired, lost workers from fields Only seeking home, but ending lost, doomed. I will show the world the dancing that yields A capture, within and without, consumed By the sliced eyes, snipped nose and gaping lip Telling silent tales from the wisp no more, Now tracked, imprisoned: a carved lightship Capsized outside, in front of my own door.
Bones rapt, in sin and sinew, Skin draped across, like satin, Decorated with ink and scar tissue, Pulled tight into hammer: Weaponized, contained, poised. Flying forth, a synchronised violence. Connection, fusing tissues Like atoms under heat and pressure, Expanding the heat and the bruise Across the nose and under the eye, Staring in bloodshot shame, A blame game to tame the lame, Hobbling, like a cripple, Limping to a whimper, A simper to linger, Edging into the unfettered Dregs of vision, Fading, failing and falling, Cascading towards the ceremonious Banquet, untouched and unsmashed, Grasping forlornly To the last moments of sense, Holding on to the whirling world, Curling and unfurling, Twisting down across the table, Undecorated unceremoniously and Deconstructing rapidly Under the dead weight Of unconsciousness And uncontrolled rage.
Ezra Pound, American poet and critic, was born on this day in 1885.
No amount of lying will reveal the name Of the man reclined in stupor, Imbibing the soot of the baked leaf. Stranger things will happen when Taking without responsibility. It's really a question of ethics. Can I? Will I? Should I? I can't recall... It seems that I've slipped. I've gone down, upside-down. I've taken the boat to no where, A field trip to an empty museum, A mausoleum full of broken statues, Wreckage of the dreams of children, Lost to the dust of time, space And unhappiness.
Sir Walter Raleigh, English explorer, writer, poet, politician, soldier and spy, was executed on this day in 1618.
The monkey crossed himself Before hesitantly opening his laptop, Scared about what he'd find. He brought up his browser And flipped to Google. "How to end it all with a smile..." The results appeared And cascaded down his screen. Lost in the mists of advertising The monkey was desperate for Some kind of meaning. Google couldn't provide that, But neither could his life. Slamming the computer shut, The monkey resigned himself To his inevitable fate Swinging on the end of a rope.
Erasmus, Dutch philosopher and christian humanist, was born today in 1466.
Bill Gates, American businessman and philanthropist, was born on this day in 1955.
Ted Hughes, English poet and writer, Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom from 1984 until his death on this day in 1998.
Playing the clay sometimes gave him cramp in his hands, but there was more freedom in the mould than in the firing. Days on his own, folding and reshaping the bust of his own head. For a long time he couldn't shape his own nose, the angle just wasn't right, the tip too bulbous, the nostrils always flared, like a bull's. He devoted most time to his hair, and that needed to be just so. His own head was sparkling and without follicles, But the bust was larger than life, it had to speak as if the model had no voice, sing with a tenor's true warble. It had to show his final form, and so its hair had to be perfect. The locks intricate and precise, the curls flowing, As if netted in a breeze. The parting so straight It could be a tool for architects to wonder at. In short, the hair became heir to mastery, In the mould, at least. For firing took the edge from it. It diminished and receded, like his hairline. In truth, it became ordinary, just like the sculptor. Never a more truthful representation of the past had been cast in bronze, but the gold was lost, in the flashing and filings.