Dracula

A WONDERFUL HALLOWEEN (OR MISCHIEF NIGHT) POEM BY MY FRIEND GARY SMITH

IF POE REVIEWED DRACULA by Gary Smith

If Poe reviewed Dracula would the castle still be haunted
would ravens circle overhead and black cats be unwanted
would Poe name Stoker’s unnamed brides with stories to be told
conjure their names from darkness and to devil be betrothed

Morella is a shade of deadly nightshade called Belladonna, it is old
Ligeia  she of raven’s hair that glints more than dust covered gold
sweet Lenore, the queenliest dead, whose funeral song be sung
three brides who are not brides to God, three who died so young

Alone with demons dreaming is a dead Count in an oblong box
time is measured in centuries and not by the mere mortals clock
Castle Dracula sleeps by day and at night its masques are red
conquering worm slithers amongst unhallowed soil of the dead

If Poe reviewed Dracula would the castle still be haunted
would ravens circle overhead and black cats be unwanted
would love of English graveyard poets be there for all to see
spirits of the dead they circle dark kingdoms by dead seas

A dream within a dream by day a sonnet to utter silence
below there lies a valley of unrest in shadow of the siren
a descent into the maelstrom of undead all untouched by time
red lips they beckon unwise men as they whisper ” Valentine.”

© 2016 Gary Smith

IMAGE: A Family Mausoleum (unidentified, Pinterest)

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DRACUL

 

Blood origin stains

Bucharest to Budapest corridor

I, a dusky cocktail shaker of Romani

Transylvanian Dragon

And a hint of Hun

Jewelry of choice

Pungent garlic garlands

Neckerchief hiding vulnerable spots

Wild wolves leaping

Through unshuttered windows

Where babies in baskets

Dream on the cold wood stove

Mother rarely sleeping

Until children of age

To self-protect

All those years

You stood outside

Waiting for me to be

Old enough for you

And I knew

How wrong

How good

Your lips felt

Secret bruise throbbing

Under my fringed shawl

Skin growing paler with each taste

Then one night

Unspeakable delight

Lying on icy stone

Never to return home

Eternal bliss with you…

 

© 2016 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)

IMAGE: Budapest abandoned house (FB post)

STOKER

ANOTHER FINE POEM BY MY FRIEND GARY SMITH

 

Seven years for his ancient tale before he cast his spell
in which three brides within it, they never kissed nor tell
many things are hidden, houses, names and Lordly tombs
all there in hidden view to make maiden Victorians swoon

It started with a dream they say,nightmare by any other name
in London, Whitby then Cruden Bay before being led astray
In a carriage coach to the Borgo pass black horses led the way
to Castle Dracula, found on no map, where Jonathan did stay

Alone at night, evil in sight, like it”s authors midnight walks
under gaslit streets, which Victorians sweep,ladies still do talk
a cold beautiful wife, once clad in white, betrothed to her beauty
preyed on his mind,to be unkind,like all then it became his duty

And his master”s voice,often heard, from both stage and letter
a knightened man, easy slighted man,whilst he was ink & blotter
and when all was told, and on Lyceum Theatre stage it did unfold
there was no praise, only cutting words, for the story darkness told

But who remembers them but footnotes , shadows on his stage
dustcovers time, and books that rhyme, written on his page
his was a darker tale,a hidden spell,like a ladies Lordly death house
a tale of a lady fine, who spoke of time, and hearing the attic mouse

He alone knew what he”d wrote,well excepting the treasured few
a letter his mother wrote, if I may quote ,” You have outwitted Poe ”
and a review that said ” In a century this tale will still be told ”
but what off the man,and his two marching bands,when he was old

To have written this, to have had this gift,and then to be alone
did he ever think,when he held a drink, of his dark lord on his throne
did he ever smile, in his devlish style, while shouting at the sea
it”s endless roar,from his voice it tore, his king vampire we do see.

(c) 2016 Gary Smith