Faerie Fright
In that autumnal farmhouse
My crackling fire blazed;
Alone for weeks, I’d had weird dreams
That frightened and amazed.
November night was raining;
The final days of fall
The forests just beyond dark fields
Held back by a stone wall.
Caring for that old dwelling,
Jobless, carless, homebound,
Alone before the glowing hearth
I thought I heard a sound…
Fear then leaped upon me
And paralyzed my mind.
Lights were off in the old Maine house—
My fears were undefined.
And then I heard a music
Like mystery and dread,
Playing low in some shadowed room
And playing with my head.
I swore I heard a rhythm
Faint sounds of flute and bell
Like fairy-frenzy—or the beat
That leads lost souls to hell.
In that autumnal darkness
I huddled by the fire,
But could not shake the terror
Of my panic rising higher.
At last I stood and shouted
The names of Christ in faith;
Flung wide the doors of every room
And banished every wraith.
If God is omnipresent
And Jesus Christ is king
Then why should I be victimized,
Afraid of everything?
The dread transformed to power:
Faith rose to the affair;
No longer haunted, life and peace
Returned to bless the air.
So did it really happen?
Or was my mind deceived
By vitamin deficiencies
As others have believed… ?
PROMPT #24:
write your own poem that takes place at night, and describes something magical or strange
Prompt Number 23
Do not relax your villanelle
Though scrawlers will give up, and slide
And vapid verse attempt to sell—Try to write a villanelle, and have the poem end on a question.
Though scrawlers will give up, and slide
And vapid verse attempt to sell—
They type, in vain, a free-verse hell
Where poetry convulsed, then died;
Do not relax your villanelle.
Their poems are an empty shell
Devoid of message. Woe betide
Those babblers who attempt to tell
A tale— or say a dull farewell
Unable to inspire, or guide.
(Do not relax your villanelle.)
So let the lyrics now impel
False poets toward the great noontide;
And may their muses judge them well.
Our destinies run parallel:
Some verses live, where others died.
If you relax your villanelle,
Will other poets then rebel?
Try to write a villanelle, and have the poem end on a question.
No Time for NaPo
write your own poem in which the speaker is in dialogue with him or herself
1) Rhymed Verse
Roses are red,
Violets are blue,
I’m schizophrenic
(and so am I.)
2) Haiku
roses are reddish
violets, they tend to be blue
sugar is sweet… whoops—
3) Free Verse
Rose talk in my
ear: flowersong/softpetaling
the weird line break
Violet violence the hanging
line ⌊ ≠ the space
between
Sugarsweetness and what comes
after
CONNECT/HOOK 