Happy 3rd Anniversary to me!

Recently, Halloween Haiku celebrated its 3rd anniversary. It’s been a quiet and subdued year, partly due to the pandemic, partly due to the fact that I’ve been unemployed since January. The job hunt takes up most of my energy, focus, and time these days. I had even toyed with the idea of shutting down, but decided to simplify instead. I post haiku every week. We’re not the biggest or the most exciting web blog, but who doesn’t need a little quiet contemplation every now and then?

I tried many times to hold events and do contests, but the truth is, I simply don’t have a big enough following to justify the costs. Given my current situation, I’m not going to try and rectify that anytime soon. We’ll see what the Halloween 2021 season brings.

Haiku is hard. I’m not even sure how good I am at it. It’s more than coming up with three lines. It’s about conveying emotion, feelings, and memories. Trying to conjure up connections through seventeen syllable poem and imagery is not a simple task either. True haiku is about nature. Senryu is less about nature and more about people. It’s often times witty or humorous. Most of my poems falls under the category of zappai, a seventeen syllable poem that does not match the format or characteristics of either haiku or senryu. I like writing halloween haiku, horror haiku, or dark haiku. I like writing in third person, say, from the witch’s point-of-view:

burning straw
escape the witch hunters
a magical broom

Maybe it’s no Matsuo Basho, but it’s not a haiku failure either. It’s just different. If you’re interested, you can learn more about zappai and other haiku styles here.

I want to thank my supporters, readers, and anyone who stops by to take a look at my little blog. I appreciate your time and energy. Here’s to another great year of Halloween Haiku.πŸŽƒ

Poe Sundays

Conqueror Worm*
by Edgar Allan Poe
(1843)

Lo! ’tis a gala night

Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!

That motley drama- oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!- it writhes!- with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, ‘Man,’
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

 

*Reading along with horror icon Vincent Price is quite haunting.

Poe Sundays

darkcrypt

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 likeΒ 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-

SomeΒ 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.

 

Poe Sundays

ALONE
by EDGAR ALLAN POE

 

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 loved, I loved alone.
Then β€” in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life β€” was drawn
From every 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 rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed 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.