The Gothic Poets Society discussion

Hey, I'm Josie. I'm really sorry if I wasn't supposed to make a topic without someone's permission but I noticed there weren't any, so I thought upon myself to make one. This should be for everyone's writing, mainly poetry. I write mainly dark things, but some are kind of happy or descriptive.

Josie wrote: "Hey, I'm Josie. I'm really sorry if I wasn't supposed to make a topic without someone's permission but I noticed there weren't any, so I thought upon myself to make one. This should be for everyone..."
I also write, but it will take me ages to translate them in English.. I'll start now, but meanwhile, post something written by you!

The Storm of the Dead is upon me now,
though how it started, I haven't a clue how,

rain pours down and lightning flashes,
the whole house creaks as thunder crashes,

I walk outside and find that in the wind,
souls whip around with a message to send,

They say something is amiss, but nobody knows,
everyone is oblivious, such as the jester, in "The Cask of Amontillado",

I really should help them but what if I don't?
The consequences will surely be great if I won't.

I think of all this as I stand,
smack dab in the middle of The Storm of the Dead,
what should I do?
I am, of course, filled with dread.

I really should help them, but what if I dont?
the consequences will surely be great if I won't.

So as I choose whether to stay or to go,
I think I should choose the lesser of evils,
yet which is the greater of great foes?
Should I stay or should I go?



And if you post some of your story Nikoleta, I'll run it through Google translate and post it here if you want.

Thanks Josie! yeah, we're just trying to get this group here off of the ground. Great of you to jumpstart things! Post all you like. No permission necessary. ;)

Beautiful writing btw. :)
Ari

Awesome, thanks Ari :) It takes me awhile to write something even half way okay so I just have a couple of things stockpiled in my computer. This is an awesome group ;D

Josie wrote: "Awesome, thanks Ari :) It takes me awhile to write something even half way okay so I just have a couple of things stockpiled in my computer. This is an awesome group ;D"

Happy to have you here. :)

That was a beautiful poem Josie!

Awesome, thanks :)

Anybody else got some material?

Okay, so Veterans Day is coming up and my English teacher decided to make my class work on a poem, essay, or letter dedicated to the sacrifices and contributions of our soldiers for the Veteran's Day Assembly writing contest. So, over Fall break, I have written this; just finished it.

Veteran's Bravery

Love for his country,
is what keeps him going,
risking his safety,
even as the battles continue growing,

their families worry constantly,
about them and them only,
while enemies wage war boldly,
waving weapons wantonly,

even as shrapnel flies,
and gunshots ring through the air,
they know that freedom is the prize,
so they will never be deterred by any mere scare,

by them, sacrifices were made,
and bravery was shown in their fighting days,
they are home, as their families prayed,
ennobled now forever, and in all ways,

and our country's colors,
the beautiful red, white, and blue,
are held by our sisters and brothers,
the American veterans, our greatly beloved crew.

I'm lonely now,
with a shredded heart,
knowing that you never really cared from the start.

You said that you'd loved me,
As you toyingly joked,
about how I should be happier.

I told you my secret,
and shared with you my terrible mind's afflictions,
while you were really just losing all intentions.

I thought I could trust you,
but after you found out what was wrong with me, that I was damaged, all you did was run away from me,
when it was you for which I had a need.

So I now sit here depressed,
wishing I was dead,
demons swirling through my head.

Your betrayal when I needed your trust,
Your lack of compassion when I needed understanding,
Your constant manipulation, because you were no longer caring (at least not to me).

I'm done with it now,
for you have left me in my time of need,
and as I stare the monster in the mouth, I realize my future is bleak.

You hold me up,
when I'm falling down,
you make me feel like I'm wearing a crown,

you are the shoulder I cry on,
when I'm down and withdrawn,
with you I'm not the Ugly Duckling,
I'm the beautiful swan,

know that you're a blessing to me in every way,
you keep me sane in this world, Jeffry!



And to answer any questions beforehand, this was a poem written for a dear friend of mine, Jeffry, who moved last year. He's in OKC now, but we still manage to keep in contact most of the time, through email mostly. He really does keep me grounded most of the time, and makes me feel like I don't have to wear the mask that I put on around other people with him. I've never had a truer friend, and I'll always love Jeffry :)

Always good to have a friend like that.

Well I just posted a poem I wrote awhile back, not sure if it was appropriate for the list here so I will post a link for those who wish to go have a look https://www.goodreads.com/story/show/...
Hopefully it will take you there. Per your request Josie, I hope you find it at least interesting!

I haven't written any poetry in quite some time. Some years ago, my written word morphed into artistic expression via my artwork. Since I can't post any of that here, all i can do is offer the link. :) http://arijah.deviantart.com

Arijah, these are wonderful! I haven't an artistic bone in my body, in that sense. I think my favorite might be "Meeting Place." :)

Thank you sweetie. Glad you enjoyed them. :)

Love the cemetery pics. Spent alot of time in them over the years myself, just wish I would of took more pictures though.

And the the psychotic rampage of black also known as Darkness descends upon me making it hard to breathe, like cement blocks inching closer and closer to suffocate me and complete the final chapter in my life, to plunge me into Death, an abyss so dark, deep, and ultimately inescapable that the mere thought being pondered by man could drive one insane.

Yeah, sorry, I know it's not a poem, just something I found that I had written awhile back.

Sounds like stuff I would find myself writing several years ago. Tweak it a bit and you would have a great opening to some horror story there Josie :)

Thank a!

Again, not dark or anything, but this was the product of my epic boredness in history this morning:

Purpose:

Purple and yellow,
orange and red,
the sun sure is pretty before it's dead.
_______________________________________
The sun dies and the herons cry,
sitting on the shore at twilight,

the light is resting for the day,
as the white birds say, "Away, away!"

But soon enough, even this is gone,
my beautiful world so bright,
only I and the sand remember the song,
of the herons wailing their plight,

Darkness surrounds as the cacophony crescendos,
I hear them vying for light,
so they may see the tide so low,
drink in the starry night,

I sit there long, till I feel as though I can no more,
and then I simply fall prey to sleep on my soft and sandy shore,

But then I wake, I'm suddenly blinded,
for the sun's rays now tickle me,
Birds cry again, their souls now settled and kindred,
they sound of their answered plea,

In this ordeal I had no hand,
and with this I am content,
nature's carried out it's plan,
now I know in this world where I'm meant,

Not by the shore with the birds freely circling,
nor fixed in a place so that's so dull,
.......................................................


All of the dots are because I'm honestly not sure where I'm going with it; I'm just kind of revising and adding as I work. Thanks!

Pretty good so far Josie. I think I have read it like 10 times and am just letting the visualization sink in. I can see a few things that could be tweaked, words and clean up some rhymes, but you have a good thing going here. Looking forward to seeing the final product!

Something I wrote many years ago. Reading the beginning of Josie's poem above made me think of it so thought I would post it in my writings here: https://www.goodreads.com/story/show/...

It courses through me,
the colors in my veins,
the love and joy, the sorrow and pain,
Pink and red, black and blue,
All of them I've felt for you,

Every person leaves a mark,
a color all their own,
an impression, a print, a color,
the one you left was blue.

First you gave me pink,
so lovely and so new,
deep and rich and genuine,
warming me through and through,

You kept my heart open to love and accept,
to find joy in the world,
and in my dreams as I slept,
so I've gained now vibrant red.

But sorrow then reigned with a distant memory of forever,
a blackness, a coldness,
distance.
Blackness encroached, red and pink severed.

Alone now,
not knowing what to do....

Every person leaves a mark,
a color all their own,
an impression, a print, a color,
the one you left was blue.

A white canvas. Plain white. An empty expanse, an endless abyss, which Henry is now the commander of. For hours he stares at this canvas, just wishing he could think of something worthy to fill this space, something beautiful and rich, something to take the ordinary observer to an extraordinary place. All of a sudden, Henry is hit by an idea which sends his mind reeling. The entire picture comes into focus, the colors and shading and things hidden in the shadows. He practically runs across his small Upper Manhattan apartment, all he could afford as an art student on his own, to grab his box of paints and brushes, the only materials he would need to occupy the coming hours. In his haste to return to the canvas, Henry manages to spill an old mug of stale coffee across his already stained carpet after stubbing his toe on a red armchair with a tear along the seat. Deciding to worry about it later, he launches himself away and into his chair. He takes out a large ceramic pallete and squeezes all the colors he will so far need onto it. Red, blue, yellow, black, and white, all spread, reaching each other's borders on the ceramic surface. Feverishly and with great deliberation, he chooses a brush and begins.
Long swaths of grey across the canvas completely cover the upper portion, a good base for the soon to be sky. Then, below that, blue, the water along the banks of a forest soon to be created, along with all the mysteries that come with it. Slow, dark blue movements across the sky darken the shade, and carefully placed white creates the stars and their shining brilliance. Then orange below that, mixed with the blue and gold and grey, creates almost a white, a day beginning and ending. Then the colors of sun darken as they descend to where you can see barely the top of the glowing orb, floating low on the dark waves, tossed by the easy wind. The water expands until you can no longer see it in the distance, but it starts at the rocky shore, made of gravel and sand, course from lack of human exposure. Above the rocks lies soft, vibrant green grass, darker though in the coming evening. The grasses are tall, tall enough to conceal all manners of small animals and insects which live in the bordering forest. The huge evergreen trees tower above all else near the icy water, kings of their stretch of land, their pines stretching out to the horizons and their peaks reaching for the heavens and worshipping the dying rays of the great sun. They sway in the light wind, the alive green needles rustling against each otehr as they dance to the rhythm of all the raw nature around them.
And then...nothing.
Henry sits back, eyes closed, just breathing. Simply breathing. He has finished. Minutes later, slowly, very slowly, he opens his eyes to see what he has created. With a sense of awe, he reveled in his work, noticing small things he hadn't even remembered drawing, such as the small yellow pair of eyes peering out from a stand of bushes near a copse of trees, or the remains of what was the wreckage of a rowboat, demolished on the unforgiving rocks. A large white seabired wheeled around in the sky, surverying its kingdom, starlight refracting off its snowy wings, delicate and light, yet strong. Henry had been so immersed in the making of this painting that he unconciously added these things that fit so right, somehow knowing without thinking that they were meant to be.
Pleased with his work but really too tired to take much pride, considering it was 2:30 in the morning and he'd been at it for six hours, he cleaned the coffee earlier spilled, and the bitter smell inspired him to brew another pot. As soon as it was ready, he poured it into a red mug, a souvenier from his art school, and stepped outside onto his fire escape and into the chilly November air. Feeling the steam from the hot, aromatic drink reach his face, he looked out across the city and listened to the cars honk, the people shout, and a light rain begin to fall, illuminated by the pink neon lights of the bar just one block over. Finally becoming fully at rest, Henry drained the last of the coffee, slipped into a pair of blue and grey pajama pants, and loped off to his couch where he fell asleep, exhausted.

The Manhattan Story
Sunday, November 19th, 2013
OBITUARIES
Henry Dallas White.
1991-2013
A now famous artist, Henry was discovered early the morning of November 27th in his Manhattan apartment, motionless. When police arrived on the scene, it was determined he died of a heart attack, at just 22 years old. Police noticed a canvas leaning against the wall with a most beautiful painting, the paint not yet even dry. It is now on display at the college of art at which he attended. Henry will be dearly missed by friends and family, and mourned by the nation for such a talented man's passing.

Hey,
My name is Hope. I am an Edgar Allen Poe follower. I have been put in a spell by him and his Gothic Romanticism. I would like to share my poetry and my mind with you all. If that is alright?

Absolutely! Hello Hope! Share away, we'd love to read it :)

Look forward to seeing some new stuff posted on here Hope!

Nice little story there Josie. Had a little Lovecraftian feel to it.

I like the rhyme scheme you've got going there, and I appreciate your vocabulary. I like it!!!

I have a small short story (which, I know, is not poetry, but I will post it anyways) if any of you wish to read it. I had to write a paragraph with an "ominous" tone without using the word ominous. So here ya go.

Thomas sighed as he walked down the lonely alley, a short cut to his apartment. The garbage bins on either side of him stood like rusty steel sentries for the decrepit doors and made slight noises as the rain that had started just as he'd left the university pattered down on them. It was late, almost midnight, and Thomas wondered what exactly had made him major in environmental studies when it gave him all this hard work. Just then, he reached the main road, devoid of cars at the hour, and continued down the sidewalk toward his residence where his worrisome roomate awaited, just two blocks away. Suddenly, Thomas felt a change in the atmosphere, a shift in the air pressure. Something was amiss, he was sure of it. Just then a hideous shriek sliced the air, high and clear and primal, the sound of something trying to survive. The hairs on the back of his neck and his arms stood up as he noticed that from the alley way only a few yards in front of him, cracks in the sidewalk reached out, fingers beckoning toward the harsh green light being emitted from the alley. Thomas' mind screamed for him to move away, to flee, but his intellectual side wanted for him to stay, to stay and to find out what this phenomenon was and to help the piercing scream that still echoed in his ears. Then, the decision was made for him. As the full moon came out from behind the black clouds in the soundless sky, a force gripped his mind and compelled his wildly panicked mind to move his feet step by step, one at a time, toward the alley. In moments he was there, the entrance. He could see nothing for the green light but could hear whispers in his ear, promises of things to come, things to be done, things to expect...he then let out a scream so loud the whispers went away for a moment and Thomas could hear footsteps coming up behind him. Frantically, he thrashed about and tried warning the person coming behind him, but just then, he was sucked into the light and then all was silent except for the footsteps behind him, advancing toward the cracks in the sidewalk and the green alley.

Wow, that's great that you're published!

That would be fun, but I have no idea how to go about such a thing! Nor do I have enough short stories compiled...

I like Devout there Angel. Such a ring of truth, though one might consider that light and dark each play a different game. The darkness is in your face and overwhelming, the light seeks invitation and is subtle. Mankind is the ultimate battleground for the powers that be for sure.

I am hell....I burn in my own purgatory fires.
I seek to purify and eliminate my desires,
though the more I strive to eternally destroy
the greater they rally, new forces deploy.

If in hell I must be, I shall hate the world
ruin all the good others have, even hope! hurled
to the abyss I call home. Let them all know
the depths despair can take. Such pain I will sow.

On the Eve of Doom

As the time ticks away slowly creeping
The life gives away fragile and weakening
No means of an exit or ways of escape
Darkness all around, falling like a curtain drape
For all that’s been seen is only in the mind
Therefore no traces of anyone will you find
Soon the brain will stop and wander
Taken over by evils of which that conjure
up such things that you cannot bare
Fighting despite knowing nothings there
With no one around there’s no one to blame
A once valued person now without a name
The spirits will rise and be seen soon
Pitch black strikes upon on the eve of doom

Voodoo Bridge

The night sky was immaculate
The moon illuminating bright
In the scarce cold darkness
Howls are heard near the lake
The mist descends from the water
Casting a fog that carries on
Into the rare, quiet streets of Bourbon
There are whispers within the shadows
Out of the mist they emerge
With their instruments of magic
Suddenly the peace has dissappeared
Replaced by sounds of truth
Past the streets they go
Marching as they call out the dead
As the rendering is heard as chants
It’s all happening at once
It’s all coming into motion
The sights and sounds are live
The dead arise slowly from slumber
As they cross the voodoo bridge

Hello,

First of all, a big thank you to Angel for inviting me to join this group.

I don't know how much of a gothic writer I am, meaning I don't stick to any genre, still, I do have some dark moments in my writing, very dark allegedly. I don't go for the common leitmotifs of the gothic though, if anything, instead of talking about supernatural elements in supernatural beings, I talk about supernatural elements in common situations. It's all in the spirit for me....

Well, judge for yourselves....

The following is a poem from Queer Poems, my latest collection, and it's about domestic violence:

Shadow Whisper

Behind the bleeding veils of coarse
Corrosive cords of linen stiffened
In the breath that freezes stars
And chokes the Moon in solitary
Nights, the blighted cries of voices
Moist with poisoned spells
Of Hell
Are drawn on charcoaled canvas cut
And torn by time
When echoes shadow sparks
In embers stifled under scars
Like drops of thought that thaw in thick
Black holes devouring dry, deserted
Worlds with wanton words of woes
And stares -
Behind the curtains no one cares.

If you click on the picture below, you'll see a video of me reading 'Shadow Whisper' live at the Poetry Society in London:



The next is a passage from The Road to London, called 'Thunder':


Thunder strikes; the grey city shakes. Scolding the grey metropolis, thunder strikes, low, remote like a lost lament. Thunder strikes; the fierce wind sweeps the long grey avenues that lead nowhere, scraping the walls, chasing the smog into the ground. Thunder strikes; the land cowers. Steady, monotonous, the gale pillages the pavements, upsets the grey asphalt, knocks on the doors of the grey blocks. Thunder strikes; grey factories and office blocks shrink and hide. Hail, like fire from hell, blasts the grey towers, rain pelts the grey cars. The grey city lies supine, moaning breathlessly in the endless night. Thunder strikes; its fingers scratch the windows of the grey prisons, seeking a way in. Panes shatter, shutters scatter, tiles fly. Thunder strikes; like a crying child, the grey metropolis cowers and recoils. Silence. Thunder strikes; dark covering darkness. Its void boom echoing among the grey souls, shivering against grey walls and under the beds, awaiting the end. Thunder strikes, then lightning. Reaping the sky apart, like heavenly fire, for a moment, the grey city lies naked, defenceless in the light. For a moment, thunder is silent, the sky waits, the universe is still. Thunder and lightning, the universe opens and pours its rage onto to dormant giant. Thunder: the warning. Then lightning. Aeons of darkness break, a single light lashes the land. Amongst the million grey souls, lightning strikes. Lightning strikes, the city awakes. From nightmare to nightmare the grey souls raise their heads in silence. Thunder strikes, then lightning: cutting the endless night, light falls on a dream.

Here's a dark poem from my upcoming poetry book, Colours of Poetry, out in April:


Finality and Twilight


In the last rays of swirling light
when the earth kisses the dusk,
will you dance among the graves
and sing a gentle song for Death?

When the earth kisses the dusk
where will your tired footsteps lead?
To a tombstone not yet etched?

Will you dance among the graves,
a ghostly apparition in your arms,
that bitter, closing waltz, macabre?

And sing a gentle song for Death,
laugh bravely as you pass his shadow.
He awaits only the sweet music’s end.

Angel wrote: "Death’s Door


That knife
It’s stuck in deep
It won’t sleep
Like a wolf in sheep’s clothing
Reaping my soul
Leaving me swollen
Making me pay the toll
Keeping me from reaching my goal
Burning me li..."

This is lovely, Angel! Wonderful, melodic rhythm to it. I bet it's amazing when spoken :0)

Angel wrote: "Adriano wrote: "Hello,

First of all, a big thank you to Angel for inviting me to join this group.

I don't know how much of a gothic writer I am, meaning I don't stick to any genre, still, I do h..."


Hello Angel,

Blush, blush, blush! O Thanks, really. I'm speachless.

Reading poetry and enjoying it really comes in waves for me. So if you are digging it now go all in and hold on. I myself will get into it heavy for maybe months and then it may be a whole year before I will read a drop of it let alone write a poem at all.

Cross post from another topic

Dandelions

Like the seeds of a dandelion floating in the air
The bombs spread across the desert.
The yellow patches spread throughout the untended ground
With fiery brightness,
Suddenly appearing in a wink of the eye,
Making you doubt that their presence
There hadn't always been,
So suddenly and completely they engulfed the plain.
Their growth is lightning quick,
Spreading,
Reaching,
One outpacing the other, then WHITE!
Radiant,
Piercing,
Fuzzy.
My mind reels from the scene
One can't help but blink their eyes wildly from the sensory overload,
Then nothing,
Everything is gone,
Except if you close your eyes you are able to enjoy a strange
And luminescent afterimage for a short while,
Like a pleasant memory in an old man's weary mind.

Thanks! Problem is this is the style I hate writing in LOL

Wihtgar's Lament

Fly high above the shore to soar in exaltation of St Catherine's virginity; the lonely queen whom Wihtgar failed to win.

To brew dull autumn’s soil takes a song as light and wide and fast as Wihtgar’s sword. Tell me if you dare to be somebody; the pirate beneath and the priest above plot vainly but all soft, sweet scattering beetles doth shine in their eyes.

Dawn’s hoary breath frosts the lenses. Fate is silted up so step lightly to the cave. Our spectral Queen from ague died but her ceaseless temper wrought from crystal chain is forever prized.

I lived in fragments of song, doing no wrong but paid in senses finer than silk and golden thread; still I died and here and there trod, leaving imprints of my mind ...

Alp Mortal

Thank you for the invite.
My book of poems and short stories:
Cheers!

My Fingers Drip Poison:

Will you hold my flowers?
They’re rotting in my hands.
Oh!
They come alive in yours!
I wonder what poison,
Drips from my fingers?
The cracked voices,
Of broken singers.
Black like death,
Or is death bright?
I don’t know that but,
I do know that those,
Flowers will continue to,
Rot tonight.

Burning Bodies:

The paper kites melt,
Just like the ashes fell.
Scattered over each burning,
Face another memory,
Is once again dying.
A star no longer shining,
One eye still crying,
Because that’s all a burning,
Body can manage.

Drowning In Darkness:

Everything is dark.

Not one spot hasn’t,

Been engulfed by the,

Shadows.

She lays there,

On her four poster,

Bed,

Ignorant.

She is dead,

To the world.

Earphones in,

World out.

That’s how it should be.

She doesn’t want to,

Talk.

Her eyes are wide,

They don’t stop,

To blink.

Even a pin drop,

Sounds like a nuclear,

Explosion.

‘Stop’,

‘I’m done’.

‘I want to go’.

‘Goodbye’