Well, folks, I think it's time I told you about a little e-book I've written...a complete guide to the penning of dark verse. I've never seen another guide like it, myself--which is why I wrote it! It is much more than a mere list of steps, or a simple article--it is a near 5,000 word essay explaining everything a beginning dark poet--or any poet, really--ought to know. But don't be fooled by the word 'beginning,' because after you read and master everything in it, you'll be anything but a beginner! But I want to emphasize that it is written so that even someone who knows nothing about poetry can wrap their head around it. The knowledge contained in it is within the grasp of anyone with the desire to learn, patience, and dedication. However, much of what's in it can be immediately learned and utilized to better your own dark poetry.
 
Here's an idea of what to expect:

"In “Poets of the Night: A Beginner’s Guide to Writing Dark Poetry,” K. A. Opperman illustrates the basics of writing dark poetry—or poetry in general—in a fun, friendly, easy-to-understand way. In this guide specially tailored toward dark poets, he covers the imaginative and technical sides of writing poetry, and walks you through the 4 main steps of doing so, with an original example poem to illustrate every step of the process. He explains everything clearly, yet in great detail, covering knowledge and observations gained over years of careful study. In addition to widely taught technical information, he covers his own
original system of ideas. Even experienced poets will learn something new." 

And for a little taste, here are the first 2 paragraphs:

“So…you’ve been thinking about writing a dark poem? You’ve got a pretty good idea, today has just the write moody atmosphere for dark musings, you’ve got your quill and parchment in hand, you’ve got your caffeinated poison of choice at the ready, but what do you do now? How exactly does one write a poem? And what the hell is ‘iambic pen-tameter’?! 

Well, I’m going to tell you all about it. With style. And I’m not going to frighten you off with an onslaught of technical terms without explaining what they mean! If you’ve got some great dark poetry in your soul, but you’re unsure as to how to bring it out—this guide is for you!”

And here's what Ashley Dioses--the only poet to have been on every Poetry Page!--has to say about it:

"K.A. Opperman's guide was a huge and fascinating help to my ever creative mind. I've always been focused on rhyming and mostly having the right syllable count in my poetry, but I never knew that those 'spices and spells' could help so much. Now that I realize that, I have been implementing them into my every
work and to much success."

Want to know what she meant by 'spices and spells'? Well, it all has to do with my own theory of where poetry derives its Power from.... If that gets you curious--well, you'll just have to read "Poets of the Night: A Beginner's Guide to Writing Dark Poetry"!

But wait--do I even know what I'm talking about?! Is a guide to writing dark poetry written by me, K. A. Opperman, even worth reading? Well, there's a reason Robert Leyland, the Head Editor himself, chose me to be the Poetry Editor (and Assistant Editor) of Dark River Press.... And if you're still in doubt, you can read my poetry in the Poetry Pages and in Dark River 1 and judge for yourself.... 

Lastly--but not leastly!--I would like to mention that "Dark House of Hunger," by D. L. Myers, in the January Poetry Page, and "Chartreuse," by Ashley Dioses, in the March Poetry Page, were directly influenced by reading "Poets of the Night." In addition to this, both have continued to utilize what they
learned from it, and continue to impress me with great dark poetry. I strongly advise you to enjoy the generous selection of their poetry which can be found in the Poetry Pages! 

So where and how do you get "Poets of the Night"? Right here, on the Shop Page. All purchases support Dark River Press. It's like donating--only you get something!

Thanks to anyone and everyone who gives it a go!

K. A. Opperman

All writers know that Inspiration can be a most elusive creature.... One day, it won't leave us alone--but then for weeks (or months...) it makes no appearance whatsoever! This can be a real drag for us writers. We feel like we should be writing something (that's what we do, isn't it?), but what the hell do we write about?!  

Well, I know of a solution.... 

Try this exercise:

1. Go take a picture of a scene or thing that speaks to you in some way. If you don't have a camera, sketch it, or jot down some notes on what you see, how it makes you feel, and any impressions you get from it. Let the scene imprint itself on your spirit.

2. Study your picture (or sketch/notes) carefully and at length, observing every detail, no matter how small. 

3. Take notes on the physical details, and anything else that comes to mind. Don't rush it. Put your mind into the picture, walk around in it, explore it. Maybe you'll see something off to the side, beyond the borders of the original image.... Maybe you'll glimpse what's behind that tree, or in that thicket....

 4. Write a poem that both describes the scene as it is and as you imagine it, and how it makes you feel. Weave it all into a story if you want.

Below is an example I did. I was walking on a trail in the hills, and was confronted with the choice: right or left (east or west). To the left, the sunset. To the right, an exquisite moon was rising.... There was no choice for me but to follow the moon--took less than a second to decide. The scene was such a gorgeous one, with the trail winding off into the sunset hills, ancient trees flanking it, and the moon crowning all, that I just had to take a picture.... The following is from my poem "The Moonward Trail," which resulted from my taking that picture. Both the scene and the poem were enhanced and strengthened in my mind by the activity, resulting in a deeper--even spiritual--experience than could have been gotten any other way. As I read this, I am instantly there again, back in the picture....

I choose the mystic, moonward trail
As crickets chirp their vesper hymn,
And shadows the hillsides bedim.
Behind, the falling sun doth fail--
I choose the mystic, moonward trail.

It winds between the drowsy hills, 
Shaded by lone and ancient trees
Haunted by hidden faeries.
Far off, aloof, the half-moon wills
Me onward toward the drowsy hills.

So there you go. If you're stuck in a writing rut, give it a shot. If you're not--try it anyway! For a great piece of art, put the photo and poem on your wall together. If done properly--if the picture was well chosen--the two together should prove a respite from the torture and tyranny of the mundane world. 

Your Poem Editing Guy (my official title),

K. A. Opperman

Poetry is more than a mere art-form--it is a means of healing....

As a form of expression, writing poetry essentially gives us the opportunity to take what is inside of us and bring it out. Sometimes these feelings are good ones, in which case writing of them can intensify them and be a highly spiritual--even mystical--experience; but all too often, these feelings are stubborn demons who, if not evicted, can infest the soul and stifle the heart. Poets especially, for some reason, seem often to harbor keen emotional burdens--I don't think there has ever been a serious poet who has not known the
most extreme pits of melancholy and depression. In fact, on my own darkest days, I have often believed that poets are cursed--that their 'gift' is only a means to deal with an innate and undeparting shadow--a cruel irony. However, though poets seem generally given to melancholy--every human being has their darker days. 

So it pays to write a little poetry every now and then. There is no other medicine like it.

Although all art can be said to be an external representation of something from within the artist, no other art-form can be as precise and versatile as poetry--which utilizes words, the primary mode of human thought and communication--for communicating complex emotions. Therefore, the act of writing poetry is the supreme anodyne--the most potent medium for externalizing--and thereby internally curbing--dark, painful emotions. I value all art-forms, and do not mean to say that poetry is more important than any other; but in terms of usefulness as a tool for dealing with emotions, objectively, I think it is the most effective. Of course, for a natural born painter, things are different--but for those of you who have no particular allegiance to any one art-form, and need a creative emotional release (I think most of us do), poetry is probably the best way to go. And to all you natural born painters out there, you might be
surprised what you can paint with words.... It is not uncommon for artists to express themselves through several media, so poetry could--and should--be your next outlet. On top of all that, poetry is probably the easiest--and certainly the cheapest--means of cathartic expression available. Poetry is within the reach of anyone, regardless of financial status, regardless of skill level--it is the People's art. 

We all ought to take advantage of it. Writing poetry enriches life, and can help heal--and grow--the heart. It opens up unguessed vistas of expression that are Man's special privilege to know, but which the majority of people, sadly, live ignorant of. You owe it to yourself to arm yourself with this powerful
tool--there for anyone to grasp--and to explore the infinite magic and mystery of poetry....

But let me return from my zealous flight to the ground of the present. In fact, we are going to do more than simply return to the ground--we are going to plummet into the abyss....

Dark River Press is a horror zine (the best on the net, I kid you not), and this blog chiefly concerns itself with matters of dark poetry--so allow me to introduce to you the Supreme Horror: the inside of a haunted poet's soul. There is hardly anything darker--hardly anything more horrifying than the poisonous doubts and fears which can well up as a black and surging sea from the nadir of a hyper-sensitive poet's soul to drown all else. Luckily, poets possess the supreme tool for dealing with this inner horror. 

I myself have found need to call upon this tool many times, and it has always helped me. Below are the first two stanzas of my poem "Soul Rot," which I wrote last month primarily as a cathartic exercise:

There is a fungus fruiting in my soul...
A solitary toadstool rooted fast
With mats of tendrils that my lifeforce leech,
Causing a creeping rot naught can control....
 
Slowly it spreads its poison parasol...
And ever higher it inches its reach
Up from the bottom of my soul, to cast
A waxing shadow, upon my soul a pall. 

At the time of writing this, I literally felt that my soul was slowly rotting. What was once a clean, happy soul was infected with some sort of spectral fungus that was leeching off of it and rotting it--it was diseased. Of course, all this talk of rot and fungus was metaphorical for depression, and the ensuing dark thoughts that entail, doubts and fears and such. By writing my decadent spiritual state onto the page, I gave it a form, which gave me a sense of control, and allowed my mind to better grasp the situation and move past it. On top of all this, the highly absorbing diversion of writing rhyming, metrical poetry proved a much more wholesome activity than sitting and feeling my soul rot. In the end, I turned my spiritual unease into
art--I converted bad into good. There is still "a fungus fruiting in my soul," but it has shriveled for the nonce, and I know what to do should it gain in virulence.

Which brings me to the other dark irony I've discovered about being a poet: torment makes for good poetry. If I was perfectly happy all the time, I'd be a terrible poet--or not a poet at all! It is strange indeed when one finds themselves giving thanks for unhappiness--but I have done such a mad thing,
though half-heartedly, I'll admit--I'd rather just be happy, if I'm honest; but if that just can't be.... Anyone who isn't perfectly happy (most people, I think!) has great raw ore for dark poetry.

I will close by revealing dark poetry's biggest secret: virtually every poet who has ever existed has been a dark poet in some capacity.

Probably because they were all human, and realized poetry's potential for alleviating the pains of existence that all people share. All sincere dark poetry begins as darkness in a soul. If there's something dark in you--I think it's time it was out. And I'd like to see it.
                                                                                    * * *
I hardly need mention this here, but just in case: Dark River Issue 1 is now available for FREE download!!! There is all sorts of great fiction, poetry, art, articles, and interviews in there--all absolutely bloody FREE! We've got famous names (Brian Lumley!), and names that will be famous soon. We've got it all. And if you want something that's not in there, let us know about it--Dark River is the zine YOU want it to be. Tell everyone you know, and help support this wonderful new project, headed and masterminded by the astounding, tireless, intelligent, tasteful, talented Robert Leyland. 

And not only do we give you the zine, we give you the Fiction and Poetry Pages too, which are full of stuff that should be in the zine, but just can't fit! We wanted to give you more, more, more!, and the spacious Pages allow us to do that. It's all top quality stuff, and it's all free. We give you a heaping load of content--a king-sized portion not available elsewhere. It's all quite delicious. Dig in, and invite some of your friends to the feast.

K. A. Opperman

Among the ever-dwindling number of poets who still dare to utilize the awesome power of Rhyme, fewer still have entered the Fourth Dimension thereof.... Perhaps they are not even aware of its existence, or fear to tread within such an obscure realm. Perhaps they are content with the quotidian--content not to fathom the terrific abysses of Possibility.... Today, at least, the gateway to the Fourth Dimension of rhyme opens to all who read this, and I daresay you may never return....

What do I mean by 'the Fourth Dimension of rhyme,' you must certainly be wondering? Allow me to illustrate what I call 'three-dimensional rhyme,' and we'll be closer to the heart of the matter. 

'Three-dimensional rhyme,' stated simply, is rhyme within a stanza. Let us take the quatrain as an example: possible rhyme schemes include ABAB, ABBA, AAXA (X=non-rhyming line), AABB, etc. The rhymes are confined to a limited space--a dimension. They can move around a bit, but ultimately--they are confined. Just as we are confined to three-dimensional space, and unable to travel through time (what many would call the fourth dimension), rhymes within a quatrain are confined. The confines of a single quatrain, or stanza, then, is analogous to three-dimensional space.

So fourth-dimensional space, then, can be represented by multiple stanzas--at least two. Therefore, trans-quatrainal rhyme is--rhyme in the Fourth Dimension! To illustrate the concept, let's look at some examples.

Here are the first two quatrains from my poem "Cantrip":

I know the lore of wizard scrolls,
And grimoires whose runes glow like coals--
The one volume I have not read
Is that enshrined within thy heart.

I know rare philtres' recipes,
I'm master of lost alchemies--
The one elixir I've never made
Is that would pair us, unapart. 

Note that lines 3 and 4 of each quatrain rhyme with each other, across quatrains ('read' and 'made,' of course, constitute a slant rhyme).

And now one more example--the first two stanzas from my poem "Mandrake" (which, along with lots of other great poetry, can be read in full on the current Poetry Page):

Thinking to make a philtre from its root,
I plucked a mandrake from the haunted fen--
A shriek to shatter the very crystal stars
Tore through the still and murk-oppressèd air. 

The mandrake's agony was absolute--
Yet mine was greater, more my torment then!
Beneath the red and evil eye of Mars,
I beat the tuber till no life was there....

In these two quatrains, each line rhymes with the corresponding line of the other quatrain, creating the rhyme-scheme ABCD-ABCD. 

So you see, the world of trans-quatrainal rhyme opens up vast possibilities for the rhyming poet. Many would argue that rhyme is 'outmoded,' and I must admit that such classic rhyme-schemes as ABAB can feel a bit stale at times (though it remains useful in moderation)--but by utilizing new and interesting, non-traditional rhyme schemes--by being very clever, and entering the fourth dimension of rhyme--we reinvigorate the sometimes perceived as antiquated world of rhyme, and bring it into the second decade of the twenty-first century, more useful and more interesting than ever! Lack of inventiveness and experimentation is perhaps one reason for rhyming poetry being perceived as 'outmoded'--a useless thing of the past--which is entirely, entirely, entirely untrue. Rhyme is old--but it can, and will, be reinvented. In fact--it's already happening.

Needless to say, I am not the inventor of trans-quatrainal rhyme--but I do plan on taking the concept to its farthest, most maddening limits. It was from poets of yore that I first got the notion to try rhyming across stanzas, and now I will advance the concept, bringing it into new, largely unexplored territory. As in any other field, it is our responsibility as poets to build upon the rich tradition of our predecessors, not being content simply to imitate them, and not being so rash as to abandon the tradition entirely. 

So step with me into the Fourth Dimension of rhyme, and let us prove the farthest, weirdest realms of this new country.... Step with me into the future of rhyming poetry....

K. A. Opperman

Writers, especially poets, talk about the Muse all the time, and have been doing so for centuries. Sometimes we triumphantly brag about how the Muse visited us recently; and other times, we find ourselves beseeching the empty air for her return! Whatever the case, we talk about her almost as if she is some sort of supernatural entity that comes and goes, who inspires our creative efforts. This is basically the classical view of the Muse--or Muses, as there were supposed to be either three or nine of them, depending on who you asked--a multiple of three, at any rate. Now, it seems, we only have one--the Muse--which, I suppose, can be regarded as either a triple or nonuple Muse, embodying all the traits of the different Muses of classical myth. 

However, my purpose here really has nothing to do with classical myth: in this entry, I'd like to tell you what the Muse is to me--what 'she' is, and what I think it means to 'follow' her....

If you've been following my previous entries, or happen to have read anything I've written, you will probably know that my Muse comes gowned in black Nightmare, that her tresses are of venomous serpents, and that her pallid flesh is touched with the delicious grey of putrefaction. She comes most often by night, when both my pupils and mind open up to absorb whatever comes to them; and her triple-cloven tongue sings most sweetly to me of death, unimaginable torture, unbearable sadness, and strange, nocturnal passions. I can write aught but what she sings of--for anything else would be false--untrue to my soul.

Which brings me to my first point: our Muses live within us--they are part of us, part of our souls. I believe we are all born with our Muse, and that this Muse remains largely unchanged our entire life. Let me use as an example the mysterious, the horrifying, the outré D. L. Myers. As you will know if you've been following his darkling quest into the mind-liquefying, soul-incinerating realm of Other--that nightmarish limbo shrouded in murky, mephitic haze--he has been into the dark stuff since early childhood, and still is. Just look at his poetry on the Poetry Page! (vote for his poem 'Vul Ravin' by following the link on the homepage. It deserves to win--saith I, the Poetry Editor. And while you're at it, vote for my story "Corn!"--and for everything else!!!). With me, it's the same story--we're both acolytes of the Dark Muse.
Have been all our lives, and always will be--because that's the sort of Muse we were born with.

I know what you're thinking--'if the Muse is inside of us, hence always with us, then how come we're not always inspired to write?' The answer is simple: because she's not always awake! Muses, like people, need sleep too, you know--work her too hard, and she'll need some down time. She can be woken up, however.... Atmosphere, caffeinated beverages, doing lots of reading before sitting down to write--these things all help to rouse your inner Muse. 

So we've established, then, that the Muse--in my view, at least--is a sort of personification of the creative force within us all, which shuts on and off seemingly at random, but whose strength of presence can sometimes be influenced by various factors, which are particular to ourselves. Her 'personality' is generally the same, even from early childhood. Creative energy is her vitality--use too much of it too quickly, and she'll need to rest. Oh, and she needs leafy greens in the afternoon.... But do not get any water on her....

So what does it mean to 'follow' your Muse, then? We hear this notion all the time--but what does it really mean? How does one follow their Muse? Well, folks--it just happens that I've got a theory on that.... 

Following the Muse starts with Imagination--that's where the trail starts, and that's the land she's going to lead you through. When you go to write a story or a poem--whatever it may be--or course, you must first
imagine what you are going to write about--one should never write anything until they have thoroughly imagined it; and the imagining should continue--vividly and penetratingly--throughout the entire process, every step of the way.

So what then? You imagine what you're writing about--big deal (actually, sarcasm aside, it's a huge deal). Well--here's the part that no one else is going to tell you--the esoteric part--the Grand Secret--the most important part of this entry--the Secret you've been waiting to learn your whole life: when you first imagine that picture in your head--it's as true as it's ever going to be. The more you tamper with it--add in this, take away that--the less true, or pure, it becomes. We sometimes change things for reasons of logic--fiction writers especially must deal with this issue--but in tampering with the original Picture to make it seem more 'right', or 'logical,' we damage its fundamental truth, as an untouched manifestation straight from the soul. Writing what you really see in the picture--when it's fresh--is what following the Muse means to me. If you see a yellow sky, then write it that way--because the sky is yellow for a reason. You might not consciously know why the sky is yellow, and the more logical part of your mind might want to change it to orange or blue--but if you do, the Muse has already escaped you, over the hill, far away, beneath a yellow sky, beyond your eye. The fundamental truth of that yellow sky will be deeper than any logical truth you can come up with. The color might have subliminal meanings or associations that add to what you're trying to convey--things you might not be able to fully understand, or put into words, but which have an effect
nonetheless, which may be an important contributing factor to the whole.

But as I stated, fiction writers can run into trouble here. The short story form, much more than poetry, generally demands an underlying logic, even when fantastical events are involved--and a plot that 'makes sense,' or is 'believable,' is essential. Following the Muse for a fiction writer is a matter of precarious balance--I know first hand! I've been led into some weird places from which I could not escape.... You can still follow your Muse, and you should--but you must be careful, lest, like a corpse-candle, she lead you into a bog! Ultimately, unless you're a full-on fantasy writer, some compromise may be involved--you may have to tweak that original picture just a bit--but it's not the end of the world, and everybody does it.  Ultimately, just be careful that visual imagination and plot construction--if there is a plot (many poems don't have one)--don't become too entangled. If you merely follow the pictures, without any careful regard for plot, which is hugely important!--you may get lost.... The imagining and the plotting should influence each other a little--just be careful! 

You now have a pretty good grasp of my theories concerning the Muse--what 'she' is, what it is to follow her, how to do so, the benefits, and the dangers. Is your Muse awake? What do you see? Write it down, and be faithful to the picture--to your Muse.

K. A. Opperman
Your Poetry Editor

If you're a writer, you use words. And at the end of the day--and maybe even the beginning, too--we're all writers. Hell, forget the writer thing for a damn second--we all use words, whether we write them or speak them. 
 
Some of us use words more than others.... If you're an aspiring horror writer, you use pages and pages of them to limn the horrors that lurk in your imagination. If you're a poet of the dark and strange, you select them one by one with cunning skill to be as exact as possible in best portraying the shadowy emotions and images involved. If you're a blogger for Dark River Press, you clumsily piece them together, wondering what the hell you're getting at, while devouring a box of Cheez-Its.... 

What am I getting at? The point I'm making is that we all need words--so get learning. Horror writers especially, as I've said before, can benefit greatly from an arsenal of specialized words that bring out the complex subtleties involved in evoking 'horror.' Atmosphere. Suspense. Fear. If you've got the right words to bring out these and other elements of horror, your work will be all the more striking, and therefore--more memorable. Which is key if you want your work to weather the cruel and mordant centuries.... (wasn't that a striking sentence?)

True, you can be a good writer without a 'fancy' vocabulary (and if you're looking for commercial success--who isn't?!--'fancy' words can work against you if you're not careful...), but sometimes an unusual word can work for you simply because you don't see it everyday. Just as the amorphous horrors of ultramundane dimensions don't assail us every day (most of us, anyway), neither are we faced with the overwhelmingly alien horror of a word like 'chthonic' (relating to the underworld) every day. And because of this, such words help to add strangeness to an already often strange genre. Carefully chosen vocabulary can both bring out strangeness, and intensify it. When we read of otherworldly occurrences described in bizarre words--the effect can be almost overwhelming. Many horror writers have utilized this technique, and so can you. I can't promise you'll be famous, but I can promise you'll freak some people out--and that's worth something, isn't it?!

For December, here are a few monstrous words to bring out the horror and amp up the strangeness! (Lovecraft fans will recognize several of them).

Squamose--scaly

Batrachian--relating to frogs and toads

Ophidian--relating to snakes

Vermicular--relating to worms

Ichor--the blood of the Gods; a fluid product of inflammation

Sanies--a fluid product of inflammation

Effluvium--harmful fumes given off by decaying matter

Mephitis--foul smelling or poisonous vapor

Noxious--physically or morally harmful

Nefandous--unfit to speak of; impious

Cacodemonic--relating to cacodemons: evil spirits

Cachinnation--loud, convulsive laughter (sometimes a symptom of
madness....)

Chlorotic--pertaining to chlorosis: a disease of green plants marked by
yellowing; describing a sickly greenness of the skin caused by iron deficiency,
occurs in young women

Necrotic--relating to necrosis: localized death of tissue, caused by venom or
disease

Bicephalic--having two heads

Erebus--in Greek mythology, darkness personified; a place of darkness in the
underworld 

Tartarus--an abysmal region of Hell 

Gehenna--a place of great torment and suffering (syn. Golgotha)

Well, that ought to get you started. Now--go spread the strangeness....

                                                                                        --K. A. Opperman

After my last entry, I thought to myself: but there're still so many cool
H. P. Lovecraft poems that need to see some light! Even after my last entry, his
poetry remains fearfully neglected--can you believe it?!--and yet much of it is
a joy to read for fans of his fiction. His poetry overflows with his own
quaint personality--which is evidently of great interest to many
people--so why not read them? Poems, perhaps more than any other art form, are
windows into their authors' souls. This all being the case, I've chosen six more
poems for us to appreciate and examine--the first two of which cannot be found
elsewhere on the net! (okay, to be fair, the true internet sleuth can
find the first on some obscure page, but I assure you it appears in a
very messy, garbled form, which is impossible to enjoy. I've
rendered it here straight out of the book, as it should look, just for
you! Only here, folks, as always!) 

Let us hie onward, then! We shall travel through the tenebrous, phantasmal
Land of Dreams, where inchoate shapes of Terror monstrously loom; we shall rive
the gyves of Time and visit evanished October in all its autumnal splendor; we
shall ambulate through a quaint, ancient garden of shriveling, fading flowers;
we shall visit a decrepit and rotting city where malefic cats prowl the foetid,
fungi-grown alleys; we shall visit a House ensnared by strangely nourished
vines; and finally, we shall brave the tangled ways of the wood where dwells the
sorcerous Lord of Averoigne....

To A Dreamer

by H. P. Lovecraft

I scan thy features, calm and white
Beneath the single taper's light;
Thy dark-fring'd lids, behind whose screen
Are eyes that view not earth's demesne.

And as I look, I fain would know
The paths whereon thy dream-steps go,
The spectral realms that thou canst see
With eyes veil'd from the world and me.

For I have likewise gaz'd in sleep
On things my memory scarce can keep,
And from half-knowing long to spy
Again the scenes before thine eye.

I, too, have known the peaks of Thok;
The vales of Pnath, where dream-shapes flock;
The vaults of Zin--and well I trow
Why thou demand'st that taper's glow.

But what is this that subtly slips
Over thy face and bearded lips?
What fear distracts thy mind and heart,
That drops must from thy forehead start?

Old visions wake--thine opening eyes
Gleam black with clouds of other skies,
And as from some demoniac sight
I flee into the haunted night.

In "To A Dreamer," we see one of Lovecraft's principal themes: that horror
and insanity oft result from traveling too far down the road of knowledge--in
this case, knowledge of what lies in the Dream World. In a sense, the Dreamer in
the poem is--perhaps against his will--on that same Quest for Other that
D. L. Myers so perceptively discusses in his blog (I recommend that all of
you read it!). To build on Mr. Myers' brilliant insights, if I may, this
Other, in the context of Lovecraft, is generally a veil of wonder--behind
which lurks mind-annihilating horror!!! It's all well and good to approach the
Veil--but step beyond it, and you are in grave danger.... Needless to say, our
Dreamer--just like most Lovecraftian protagonists--has obviously crossed beyond
the Veil of wonder.... If the narrator flees in terror as if from some "demoniac
sight"--what must the Dreamer be dreaming?! (don't think too hard on
that, folks...you might inadvertently cross the Veil yourselves....) 

Another point that bears mentioning here is that as a child, Lovecraft was
afflicted by terrible nightmares. Many aspects of his weird fiction he derived
from his dreams. So when he says "well I trow / why thou demand'st that taper's
glow," we know this is Lovecraft himself speaking--from the heart.

Some technical advice. Note the use of "thine" in this poem. It is the
equivalent of "thy," which of course means 'your,' but it should only and
always--if one elects to use an archaic tone--be used before a word beginning
with a vowel. To illustrate: it's fine to say 'thine eyes,' but do not
say 'thine hands'! And then there is the important matter of "thou," which means
'you,' in the singular sense, as the subject of a sentence. Whenever you use
"thou," any verbs telling what "thou" does/is doing almost always end with '-st'
or '-est.' Lovecraft, of course, gets it right--but so many modern writers who
attempt an archaic tone fail horribly! Botching this stuff, if you choose to
utilize this beautiful language-- which is in fact more precise than
modern English--is one of the fastest ways to make a fool of
yourself--it's delicate business! Some examples of correct usage: 'Where goest
thou?' 'Thou hast forsaken me!' Note that 'forsaken' has no '-st'. This is
because 'hast' gets the '-st'--it will only go in one place--save in situations
like this: "thou dancest, and singest." Here, two verbs describe what
"thou" is doing, without the '-st' being 'given away'--it matters not where in
relation to "thou" they occur. But if one were to say 'thou hast danced, and
sung'--this is fine. If you're going to try using this sort of language--be
really careful, and take some time to try and get it right, and be
consistent. One in this modern age can hardly be blamed for making a
mistake with this century-tarnished language--but a mistake it will remain.
There are a couple more things I would say here--but I digress too far, and this
is not the place nor time!

October

by H. P. Lovecraft

Mellow-fac'd, with eyes of faery, wistful-clad in tinted leaves,
See the brown October tarry by the golden rows of sheaves;
Oak and acorn in his garland, fruit and wineskin in his hands,
Mystic pilgrim from a far land down the road to farther lands.

Softly treading, gently breathing, casting spells on wood and wold,
Vines with purple clusters wreathing, witching boughs to red and gold;
Bearing sicklemen their pleasure when the harvest toil is o'er,
And the autumn's garner'd treasure lies within the festive door.

Bearing dreams to all who listen as he sounds his elfin horn
Where the crystal vapours glisten past the farther hills at morn;
Where the sunset hovers playing on the teeming cottage yard
Till the cryptic night comes straying in a mitre tall and starred.

Dreams elusive and uncertain, fleeting as the dying year,
Glimpses from behind the curtain, half to cherish, half to fear;
Memories that charm and beckon, vanish'd scene and vanish'd face,
Phantoms past the worlds we reckon, reaching from the wells of space.

Mounting as with necromancy, welcome visions hold the sight;
Bygone fields assail the fancy, radiant in a golden light.
Ancient lanes lead cool and bending past remember'd farms and byres,
Where the curling smoke ascending tells of happy autumn fires.

I can catch the flaming riot of the oaks and elms I know,
And the breathless ruddy quiet of the sunset's spectral glow;
And the farmhouse chimney peeping through the scarlet maple shade,
And the gorgeous fruits of reaping by the door in order laid.

Greens that red and yellow dapple, tints that match the blazing sky;
Swelling pumpkin, rosy apple, cluster'd grapes of Tyrian dye;
And behind the orchard reaching where the rolling meadows bide,
I can see the corn-shocks bleaching and the stubble stretching wide. 

Skies alive with southward winging, ravens perch'd on sheaf and stack,
Groves with eager trumpets ringing as the quarry flees the pack;
Swains with nuts and fagots plodding homeward to the twilit garth,
Soon to cluster, warm and nodding, round their cider and their hearth.

Notes of village bells are soaring, peaceful in their vesper tune,
As an eery light comes pouring from the rising hunter's moon;
Wild above the wooded mountains, weirdly shining on the streams,
Yellow floods from haunted fountains, witches dancing in the beams.

Half-seen sights from outer distance, half-heard sounds from other spheres,
Beat with goblin-born insistence on the spirit's eyes and ears.
Thoughts half-thought and yearnings sober, formless as the autumn smoke,
These thy gifts, obscure October, these the symbols of thy yoke.

Mellow-fac'd, with eyes of faery, wistful-clad in tinted leaves,
See the brown October tarry by the golden rows of sheaves;
Oak and acorn in his garland, fruit and wineskin in his hands,
Mystic pilgrim from a far land down the road to farther lands.

In "October," we see the gentler side of Lovecraft. Often he is portrayed as
some diabolical priest of alien gods, some ghoul more concerned with blatant
grotesquerie and alien fungi than with anything else--but this is simply not the
case! Like most poets, Nature held for him a keen enthrallment--in fact, he
loved to take long walks outdoors, especially in the evening, or at night. The
above nicely alludes to Lovecraft--the Romantic.

Beyond that--consider this line (the second, of the fourth stanza):
"Glimpses from behind the curtain, half to cherish, half to fear". Sounds
familiar, does it not? This line is an allusion to the same Veil we discussed
above, behind whose wonder lurketh--horror!!! This theme runs all through his
fiction, and lo and behold--here it is in his poetry. Surely, there is something
of D. L. Myers' Otherness about October--that "Time of death and dreams,
and heavy, haunted skies," as I once phrased it in a poem of my own of the same
name. It cannot be coincidence that we associate October--particularly
Hallowe'en/Samhain--with all manner of ghosts and sprites and wraiths, whose
abode is, generally, for the rest of the year, the far side of the Veil. This
being the case, it is hardly surprising that Lovecraft would feel compelled to
write this sizeable poem in honor of October.

Now to examine the several interesting poetic devices this poem utilizes.
First--the meter. Fifteen syllables per line! Time and time again, Lovecraft
proves himself a nimble versifier--not being ruled by the rhyme scheme abab, and
iambs, like most modern poets who dare to write in rhyme and meter are (he's not
one to get 'stuck in boxes'...). In fact, this poem utilizes a trochaic
meter--trochaic heptameter (plus an extra syllable) to be precise. What the hell
does that mean?--good question! Trochaic means written in trochees, heptameter
means seven trochees, and a trochee is a pair of syllables--a metrical foot--the
first syllable of which is stressed, and the second unstressed--the exact
opposite of the more common iamb. But Lovecraft doesn't stop there--oh, no!--he
utilizes internal rhymes as well! Notice that not only do the ends of the
lines rhyme (aabb), but the middles of the lines rhyme as well! Only a versifier
of high skill could write this poem. Sure, H. P. Lovecraft was a genius
at writing short stories, but never forget that he was good at all kinds of
other things, too...poetry...chemistry...astronomy...history...detailing
architecture...writing freakishly lengthy letters...essay writing....

The Garden

by H. P. Lovecraft

There’s an ancient, ancient garden that I see sometimes in dreams,
Where the very Maytime sunlight plays and glows with spectral gleams;
Where the gaudy-tinted blossoms seem to wither into grey,
And the crumbling walls and pillars waken thoughts of yesterday.
There are vines in nooks and crannies, and there’s moss about the pool,
And the tangled weedy thicket chokes the arbour dark and cool:
In the silent sunken pathways springs an herbage sparse and spare,
Where the musty scent of dead things dulls the fragrance of the air.
There is not a living creature in the lonely space around,
And the hedge-encompass’d quiet never echoes to a sound.
As I walk, and wait, and listen, I will often seek to find
When it was I knew that garden in an age long left behind;
I will oft conjure a vision of a day that is no more,
As I gaze upon the grey, grey scenes I feel I knew before.
Then a sadness settles o’er me, and a tremor seems to start:
For I know the flow’rs are shrivell’d hopes—the garden is my heart! 

For some reason I cannot fathom, "The Garden" did not make it into the 1971
poetry volume, "Fungi From Yuggoth & Other Poems" (highly recommended to
any Lovecraft fan, if you can find it!). It is one of my personal
favorites, and a solid poem--are you with me?! It's got beautiful atmosphere,
the delightful touch of decay that pervades much of Lovecraft's work, and a
splendid, appropriately poetical ending! I can tell you one thing--I
wasn't the editor of that book....

Here again, as in "October," we have 15-syllable lines--but there's
something different about the meter--something subtle.... Don't
worry--I'm going to tell you! It's this--the metrical feet are spondees--it's
written in spondaic heptameter (plus 1 syllable). Unlike the iamb and trochee,
which each have one stressed syllable, the spondee consists of two
stressed syllables--every syllable in the above poem is stressed! (the
opposite is the pyrrhic foot--2 unstressed syllables).

I know what you're thinking: how do you know if a syllable is stressed or
not?  Unfortunately--it's not a simple matter. It has to do with arrangement of
words relative to one another, vowel 'pitch'/'length', and probably other
factors I'm not thinking of right now. It's not always a black-and-white matter.
The best thing to do is go on instinct--feel the stresses.
Feel the stress-es. See how 'feel' and 'stress-' are longish
vowels, and the others are shorter feeling? That's part of stress. But observe
this: I feel tired now--here, 'feel' is unstressed--a
'short' vowel. It's a matter of pronunciation, and word placement--tricky
business. Stressed out, yet? Hmmm, this paragraph seems to have metered out....
Sorry--just a couple spondeeneous jokes--I'll stop now! Time to get spond with
it, then (okay--that one was just bad!).

The Cats

by H. P. Lovecraft
 
Babels of blocks to the high heavens tow’ring,
Flames of futility swirling below;
Poisonous fungi in brick and stone flow’ring,
Lanterns that shudder and death-lights that glow.

Black monstrous bridges across oily rivers,
Cobwebs of cable by nameless things spun;
Catacomb deeps whose dank chaos delivers
Streams of live foetor, that rots in the sun.

Colour and splendour, disease and decaying,
Shrieking and ringing and scrambling insane,
Rabbles exotic to stranger-gods praying,
Jumbles of odour that stifle the brain.

Legions of cats from the alleys nocturnal,
Howling and lean in the glare of the moon,
Screaming the future with mouthings infernal,
Yelling the burden of Pluto’s red rune.

Tall tow’rs and pyramids ivy’d and crumbling,
Bats that swoop low in the weed-cumber’d streets;
Bleak broken bridges o’er rivers whose rumbling
Joins with no voice as the thick tide retreats.

Belfries that blackly against the moon totter,
Caverns whose mouths are by mosses effac’d;
And living to answer the wind and the water,
Only the lean cats that howl in the waste!

I love this poem! And yet--it was left out of the aforementioned
poetry volume as well! Why?! I can and will tell you a lot of things
anent matters poetical and otherwise--but I can't explain that. So--let's
look at why it should have been in the book.

First, I'd simply like to point out a couple of lines which I find
particularly striking. First stanza, line 3: "Poisonous fungi in brick and stone
flow'ring".  Being somewhat of a mycophile, and ever obsessed by the alienness
of mushrooms comparative to their surroundings--as if they were from another
planet (Yuggoth?)--I always love to see a fungi reference--particularly of
the poisonous, oversized, glowing, or animated variety. What's really
interesting is the use of "flow'ring" to describe fungi--particularly fungi
fruiting from amid stone. "Flow'ring" seems to suggest profuse growth, whereas
the opposite would be expected from a stone surface. The line adds greatly to
the malign atmosphere of the town being described--presumably legend-haunted
Arkham, one of Lovecraft's most well-known invented locales, along with rotting,
sea-side Innsmouth.

Now look at stanza 2, line 4: "Streams of live foetor, that rots in the
sun". This is an incredibly striking line--in a grotesquely
beautiful way. This line brings me all the way back to my first entry, where
I insist that there is beauty in the grotesque, and that it is very valid
subject matter (you read that entry, didn't you?!--read it!)--essentially a
Baudelairean notion. "Live foetor"--what does "live" mean here? It seems to
suggest an incredibly mephitic odor--and Lovecraft does us one more, and
tells us that this "live foetor" is 'rotting in the sun'--delightful! Makes me
want to write a poem--don't you feel the same way?--I hope so! (And if you write
something good, send it to DRP!)

Let's squeeze in one more line--stanza 3, line 1: "Colour and splendour,
disease and decaying". Alls I got to say is I likes it. It is a wonderful image
of maddening sensory overload, a wonderfully succinct juxtaposition of beauty
and the grotesque--perhaps the very embodiment of the notion that the two
can and do coexist and coalesce.

Hmmm...I guess I ought to tell you about the meter.... In short--it's
written in dactyls--dactylic feet. A dactylic foot--it's got nothing to do with
dinosaurs, folks--is a group of three syllables, the first one stressed, the
second and third unstressed. Each line has three dactylic feet, with alternating
trochees and single stressed symbols ending the lines, which of course means
that Lovecraft is utilizing feminine rhyme for the first and third line of every
stanza (remember when we talked about feminine rhyme in my Hallowe'en entry?).
None of this make any sense to you?--don't worry about it. If you read and liked
the poem, were on the same page--this page, that is.

The House

by H. P. Lovecraft

’Tis a grove-circled dwelling
Set close to a hill,
Where the branches are telling
Strange legends of ill;
Over timbers so old
That they breathe of the dead,
Crawl the vines, green and cold,
By strange nourishment fed;
And no man knows the juices they suck from the depths of their dank slimy bed.

In the gardens are growing
Tall blossoms and fair,
Each pallid bloom throwing
Perfume on the air;
But the afternoon sun
With its shining red rays
Makes the picture loom dun
On the curious gaze,
And above the sweet scent of the blossoms rise odours of numberless days.

The rank grasses are waving
On terrace and lawn,
Dim memories sav’ring
Of things that have gone;
The stones of the walks
Are encrusted and wet,
And a strange spirit stalks
When the red sun has set,
And the soul of the watcher is fill’d with faint pictures he fain would forget.

It was in the hot Junetime
I stood by that scene,
When the gold rays of noontime
Beat bright on the green.
But I shiver’d with cold,
Groping feebly for light,
As a picture unroll’d--
And my age-spanning sight
Saw the time I had been there before flash like fulgury out of the night. 

An eminently Lovecraftian poem--he did write it, after all! What can I
say?--the poem speaks for itself. Well--there are a couple of things I
could say.... I suppose "The House" is a prime example of how the horror writer
might turn her or his (why must 'his' always come first?) pen to poetry--the
subject, after all, is a creepy house, and its atmosphere--that so
important facet of the horror genre! If you have an idea or image in your head,
but it doesn't feel like enough for a story--why not just describe it in a poem?
Maybe you too have seen a creepy house, have gotten impressions from it?
You could keep that all to yourself (selfish you!)--or you could
share it by writing a killer poem about it, send it to DRP, and get famous.
Maybe it's a creepy tree you saw?--same thing, write a poem. I'll bet all of
you are carrying around some great raw material for some great poems--so
what are you waiting for?

I could tell you all about the meter, remark on the form, maybe point
out a few striking lines (striking imagery=good for poetry and
stories!)--but I've done that enough for today--I invite you to try all that
yourself, using what we've already covered. I can't hold your hand forever,
'cause I'm very slow at one-handed typing, 
and I wouldn't get very much fiction writing done (you'll see some o'
that in February...)--not to mention poetry writing (which, for the most
part, I'm selfishly hoarding away for a book. 'Tis a matter of first publishing rights,
'n' all that junk....).

To Klarkash-Ton, Lord of Averoigne

by H. P. Lovecraft

A time-black tower against dim banks of cloud;
Around its base the pathless, pressing wood.
Shadow and silence, moss and mould, enshroud
Grey, age-fell’d slabs that once as cromlechs stood.
No fall of foot, no song of bird awakes
The lethal aisles of sempiternal night,
Tho’ oft with stir of wings the dense air shakes,
As in the tower there glows a pallid light.

For here, apart, dwells one whose hands have wrought
Strange eidola that chill the world with fear;
Whose graven runes in tones of dread have taught
What things beyond the star-gulfs lurk and leer.
Dark Lord ofAveroigne—whose windows stare
On pits of dream no other gaze could bear! 

Here we have an excellent example of the sonnet--just like those that
comprise "Fungi From Yuggoth". We see the two quatrains that compose the initial
octet, then after the division, we see the quatrain and final couplet which
comprise the sestet, which functions as the second 'half' of the poem. As usual,
a 'change in thought' occurs in the sestet, which culminates in one striking
statement in the final couplet. In theory, you now know enough to write a
sonnet! (provided you can handle meter and rhyme). 

For those of you who even now are thinking about writing a sonnet--I
can tell you are!--there are a few different rhyme schemes you can try. Probably
the easiest would be: abab-cdcd efef-gg; but another common one is: abba-abba
cddc-ee. Or, you could try: abba-cddc efgefg.... The octet is more or less
standardized (but feel free to experiment!), but you can mix up the three rhymes
of the sestet any way you want! (as I did in the last example). Lovecraft
was pretty set in his ways regarding the sestet--but the Lord of Averoigne
wasn't....

Who was 'Klarkash-Ton,' some of you must be wondering? He was a real
person--Clark Ashton Smith (1893-1961), native of California, USA (like me!),
and dark fantasy writer and poet extraordinaire. Perhaps you've heard of
the 'Lovecraftian' god Tsathoggua?--Smith's invention. And maybe you've heard
tell of the book of Eibon, a tome nearly or equally as terrible as the dreaded
Necronomicon?--all Smith. In fact, Clark Ashton Smith was the one member of the
'Lovecraft Circle' which Lovecraft considered his superior--he, H. P.
Lovecraft, held Smith in utter awe--that should tell you
something. There are some who say Smith was part of the cause of Lovecraft's
general surcease of poetry writing, as Smith is a vastly superior
poet--in fact, there are those who would say that Clark Ashton Smith was the
greatest poet America has ever produced, and I wholeheartedly agree with
them--there is no contest. He is perhaps best known for his cosmic masterpiece
in blank verse (unrhyming iambic pentameter) "The Hashish Eater-or-The
Apocalypse of Evil," in which a dreamer conjures up vast immensitudes of
marvelous and alien pageantry, whole cosmoses of undreamt wonder and terror. For
a time, he is master of his Visions...for a time.... In the end, the
"Emperor of Dreams" flees across all of time and space in attempt to escape the
nightmare prodigies he has dreamt up, only to come face to face with the horror
of ultimate Oblivion itself.... It is truly a mesmerizing and terrifying
monument of imaginative literature--a poem which may never be equaled in
scope, Vision and Power....

If I've got you curious (that is my aim), "The Hashish Eater" can be easily found on the net. 
I will be further discussing Smith in a future entry, along with examples of his
poetry--something to look forward to!

There you go!--another heaping portion of poetry, commentary, technical
instruction, and other fun stuff. Oh--and don't forget the 2 Lovecraft poems I
typed out of a rare, often expensive, out-of-print book just for you!!!

Questions, comments? Have any suggestions for December's Words? Like poetry
as much as I do, and want to chat about it? Want a free pointer on some aspect
of poetry writing? Have a poem you're not sure the big bad Editor will like, and
want my opinion? Then contact me! What are you waiting for? I'd love to have
some idea of who is reading this--or if anyone has the attention span to
read this far.... Email's up there, under the bio. I'm a human being (mostly)--
I'll get back to you. Dark poems, bright insights.

Until next time (within 2 weeks, or the Editor will have my head!),

K. A. Opperman
 　
 * * *　
 
"To A Dreamer" and "October" from:

Lovecraft, H. P. Fungi From Yuggoth & Other Poems. New York:
Ballantine Books, 1971.

All other poems from:

http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/poetry/

*As before, I have made a few minute alterations to reflect Lovecraft's
habitual usage.

Chances are, if you're a horror fan, you've heard of H. P. Lovecraft
(1890-1937). More than likely, you've read some of his astonishing weird
tales--or maybe even all of them. Maybe you've even read all of them multiple
times (working on that myself!). But did you know that he was a poet, too?
And if so--have you actually read any of his poems? The fact is,
Lovecraft is most famous for his fiction, and rightly so; but though his small
output of poetry is often overlooked, much of it is definitely worth
reading for the connoisseur of weird literature. 

Without a doubt, fans of Lovecraft's fiction will enjoy his poetry as well.
His characteristic style and subject matter pervade his verse just as powerfully
as in his fiction. He might not have been the greatest poet of all time--but he
was certainly a unique one; and among weird poets, he ranks as a true pioneer. 
 
This being the case, we're going to give a few of Lovecraft's poems the
careful attention they deserve! Haven't read any of Lovecraft's poems?--that's
about to change right now. Read on, enjoy the poems, and I'll elucidate
some of the wisdom they have to teach....

We'll start with "The Rutted Road"--one of my favorites, which I am unable
to find anywhere else on the net. For your benefit and enjoyment, I've
typed it out straight out of the book! Because I'll stop at nothing to
promote the best weird, obscure, dark poetry out there--and I'll comment on it,
too! Now who else is going to do that for you?! 

The Rutted Road

by H. P. Lovecraft
 
Bleak autumn mists send down their chilling load,
A raven shivers as he flutters by;
 Through lonely pastures winds the rutted road,
Whose bordering elms loom bare against the sky.

Those deep-sunk tracks, which dumbly point ahead
O'er travel'd sands that stretch to Vision's rim,
Wake hidden thoughts--a longing half a dread--
Till fancy pauses at the prospect dim.

 Descending shadows bid me haste along
The ancient ruts so many knew before;
A cricket mocks me with his mirthless song--
I fear the path--I fain would see no more!

Yet here, with ox-drawn cart, each thoughtless swain
His course pursu'd, nor left the common way;
Can I, superior to the rustic strain,
On brighter by-roads find the dawning day?

With questing look I scan the darkening moor;
Perchance o'er yonder mound all blessings wait;
But still the rutted road's resistless lure
Constrains my progress to the path of fate.

So must I grope between the brooding trees
Where those before me found the mystic night;
I travel onward, past the wither'd leas--
But what, beyond the bend, awaits my sight?

Do fairer lands than this invite my feet?
Will fate on me her choicest boons bestow?
 What lies ahead, my weary soul to greet?
Why is it that I do not wish to know?

The first thing we ask ourselves is--what does this poem have to teach us?
If you're an aspiring poet yourself (of course you are--right?!), you
should have this question in mind every time you read a poem--which
should be virtually every day (and if you're a fiction writer--the same
applies to reading stories!). So--what can we learn? The first lesson--a simple,
but extremely important one--is that a poem can be about
anything--in this case, a creepy road. When I took my first forays into
poetry so many moons ago, strange as it seems--this never really occurred to me!
So I'm telling you--if it hasn't really dawned on you yet--to save you
the trouble. I suppose the fact that my exposure to poetry was, at the time,
limited to community college English classes didn't help.... It wasn't until I
read the masterful, supreme, unparalleled poetry of Clark
Ashton Smith--a friend of Lovecraft's, and fellow writer of weird stories--that
I realized the true potential of poetry to cover a vast array of
imaginative subject matter. Anything one can write a story about, one can
write a poem about. In fact, poems have the potential to cover an imaginative
range beyond that of the short story form, them not requiring plot or
characters, and generally being so closely focused on their
subject--which level of attention and reflection on minute details doesn't
generally occur in the short story form--but that's for another day!

let's get back on track--the rutted road, that is. "The Rutted Road," more
specifically, illustrates to us the power of simultaneously treating a subject
as literal and metaphorical. On the one hand, the rutted road is just that--a
creepy road winding off to who knows where; but on the other hand--it's a
symbol for the road ahead in life. And it's more, too. The
road can also be taken as symbolic of 'straying from the beaten path' in life
(as writers are generally notorious for!), and the dangers--and possible
rewards--of doing so. And this multiplicity of meaning--in addition to
the eldritch ambiance--is what makes "The Rutted Road" an effective poem. The
lesson?--weaving multiple layers of meaning into your poem is an
excellent way of creating an effective, thought-provoking,
worthwhile piece of art. While weaving multiple layers of meaning is not
necessarily a prerequisite for writing a good poem, if your subject matter lends
itself--it's never a bad idea. Countless great poems offer multiple layers of
meaning to the thoughtful reader, which is one more reason they're worth
reading. And the more reasons a reader has to read your poem--whether it
be admiring the rhymes, the vocabulary, or marveling at the stunning imagery, or
exploring the hidden meanings--the better.

H. P. Lovecraft's crowning achievement as a poet is the sonnet cycle
collectively titled "The Fungi From Yuggoth," which comprises thirty-six--count
'em--thirty-six sonnets of pure weirdness. Although widely considered a
unique and groundbreaking achievement, it must be remarked that Lovecraft's
fellow weird writer Donald Wandrei (1908-1987) wrote a similar sonnet cycle,
titled "Sonnets of the Midnight Hours," before Lovecraft wrote "Yuggoth."
As the men were friends and correspondents, and as Lovecraft read Wandrei's
cycle, it is beyond doubt that Lovecraft got the idea for a sonnet cycle from
Wandrei. However, that being said, Lovecraft's cycle is much the superior--not
only for its greater length (Wandrei's comprised only twenty sonnets--only?!),
but for its greater variety, and greater polish as a work of art. While both
make for an entertaining and worthwhile read for the lover of the overtly
strange and the bizarre, Lovecraft clearly crafted his sonnet's with greater
skill.

It is also worth noting that many of the themes that would later form the
framework for many of Lovecraft's stories first occur in "Yuggoth"--much in the
same way the compressed epic "The Hashish Eater" is pregnant with imaginative
material which would later manifest in the 'daemonically strange' (paraphrased
from lovecraft) stories of Clark Ashton Smith. The Lovecraft fan cannot help but
love the sonnets that comprise "Yuggoth"! For your enjoyment, I've chosen
three of my favorites for a taste of this gloriously weird poetic
achievement--but I invite you to read the whole thing in its full glory here:
http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/texts/poetry/p289.asp 

XIV. Star-Winds

It is a certain hour of twilight glooms,
Mostly in autumn, when the star-wind pours
Down hilltop streets, deserted out-of-doors,
But shewing early lamplight from snug rooms.
The dead leaves rush in strange, fantastic twists,
And chimney-smoke whirls round with alien grace,
Heeding geometries of outer space,
While Fomalhaut peers in through southward mists.

This is the hour when moonstruck poets know
What fungi sprout in Yuggoth, and what scents
And tints of flowers fill Nithon’s continents,
Such as in no poor earthly garden blow.
Yet for each dream these winds to us convey,
A dozen more of ours they sweep away!

XVIII. The Gardens of Yin

Beyond that wall, whose ancient masonry
Reached almost to the sky in moss-thick towers,
There would be terraced gardens, rich with flowers,
And flutter of bird and butterfly and bee.
There would be walks, and bridges arching over
Warm lotos-pools reflecting temple eaves,
And cherry-trees with delicate boughs and leaves
Against a pink sky where the herons hover.

All would be there, for had not old dreams flung
Open the gate to that stone-lanterned maze
Where drowsy streams spin out their winding ways,
Trailed by green vines from bending branches hung?
I hurried—but when the wall rose, grim and great,
I found there was no longer any gate.

XXXII. Alienation

His solid flesh had never been away,
For each dawn found him in his usual place,
But every night his spirit loved to race
Through gulfs and worlds remote from common day.
He had seen Yaddith, yet retained his mind,
And come back safely from the Ghooric zone,
When one still night across curved space was thrown
That beckoning piping from the voids behind.

He waked that morning as an older man,
And nothing since has looked the same to him.
Objects around float nebulous and dim--
False, phantom trifles of some vaster plan.
His folk and friends are now an alien throng
To which he struggles vainly to belong.

Now that's what I call good reading!--wouldn't you agree? So--what do these
three sonnets teach us? First and foremost, they teach us how strangely well the
sonnet form lends itself to a compressed story! After all, many of the sonnets
in "Yuggoth" resemble nothing less than just that--a mini short story. The
octet, or first two quatrains, allows for a beginning, and some development; the
quatrain just after the break generally allows for a middle, or 'late middle',
to the mini-tale; and the final couplet, the last two lines, allows for a brief
ending--with a kick! This can either be the sharp, shocking ending that horror
stories oft have (you know--the italicized bit at the end?), or the
poignant, penetrating ending that will echo through your very soul long after
you're finished reading. Either way, the dual rhyme adds an extra punch that you
just don't get with prose. It is time for us writers of dark poetry to claim the
sonnet as ours! If you're feeling brave, try copying the rhyme scheme in one of
these sonnets and write your own! Just remember--ten syllables per line, give or
take one if you must. Ideally, ten or eleven syllables is best--but try to shoot
for ten as often as possible. Also, don't forget to include a 'change in
thought' after the octet--a key feature of the sonnet.

Some random words on the individual sonnets. "Star-Winds"--contains one of
the most striking lines in all of Lovecraft's poetry (my personal favorite):
"This is the hour when moonstruck poets know / What fungi sprout in Yuggoth...."
The line is so very suggestive--a key feature of much of Lovecraft's
work.... In this line, we have another instance of a literal and metaphorical
reading coinciding--to great effect. On the one hand, the Yuggothian fungi, we
might suppose, are some sort of mushroom--or possibly a sentient entity (I
still don't know!)--growing/living on Yuggoth (the planet Pluto--yeah,
I'm calling it a planet!); but on the other hand, these fungi are a symbol for
all the strange things poets--especially dark poets--are wont to imagine. In
this light, an apparently cryptic title becomes a very fitting one! (I
figured this out just now! I've always wondered about the title.... I'm so
excited!). One more thing: "alien grace," line 6. Those words are perfect
for what they're describing--chimney smoke swirling in 'wind from space'. A true
poet always seeks for the perfect words for what they're
trying to say. Much of the time, there is one best word for any word in a
poem--and the meticulous, discerning poet--the true poet--takes their
time to find these words. In writing poetry, haste is almost always the
enemy!

On "The Gardens of Yin"--there's some gorgeous oriental imagery! But beyond
that--there's a couple of things we can learn here. First: "lotos-pools," line
6. Do you think, perhaps, that Lovecraft has chosen the archaic usage "lotos"
(same as 'lotus') just to be archaic? I must admit, this could
be--probably is, if I'm honest--the case--but there is a good reason for
this choice, even if Lovecraft himself possibly wasn't conscious of it: the near
assonance--at the very least, the eye-rhyme--between the 'o's in the two words
(In case you don't know, assonance is repetition of vowel 'pitches,' and
eye-rhymes are words--or even letters--that look like they rhyme, but don't, as
in 'why' and 'expertly.'). In this case, the archaic "lotos," when paired with
"pools," proves advantageous for the overall musicality of the line. Another
thing to note is the slant rhyme (basically, almost rhymes, but not
quite) represented between "over" (line 5) and "hover" (line 8). This is about
as good as slant rhymes get--they end the same, and the vowel sounds are
very close. Having trouble making the rhyme?--try a slant rhyme. 

"Alienation," then. All I'm going to say on this wonderful sonnet (for this
'blog entry' grows fearfully long!) is: wow, what a poignant poem! I can
totally relate to it, myself. This poem perfectly captures the
horrible sacrifice that writers--especially great horror writers--often make:
chasmal alienation from %99.9 of the rest of humanity. Lovecraft himself, with
the exception of a circle of fellow ghouls with which he regularly
corresponded--the 'Lovecraft Circle,' it was known as collectively--was an
extremely alienated individual. One must pay the Sacrifice. If one accepts the
gift of Vision, and spends one's days exploring the most remote dimensions of
the imagination--one largely forfeits the (potential) happiness and normality of
the mundane world. All great artists must make this 'choice'--for never
is a great artist accepted and understood by the masses--who are generally blind
to anything of exceptional artistic merit. True, Lovecraft has gained a loyal
following--but he is nowhere near a household name. And he probably never will
be. And that makes being a Lovecraft fan all the more fun!

To finish off this mad and rambling examination of Lovecraft's poetry, we'll
look at one more short poem, for which I've long held a strange and particular
liking. Mayhap you'll like it, too?  

Yule Horror 

by H. P. Lovecraft 

There is snow on the ground,
And the valleys are cold,
And a midnight profound
Blackly squats o'er the wold;
But a light on the hilltops half-seen hints of feastings unhallow'd and old. 
 
There is death in the clouds,
There is fear in the night,
For the dead in their shrouds
Hail the sun's turning flight.
And chant wild in the woods as they dance round a Yule-altar fungous and white. 

To no gale of Earth's kind
Sways the forest of oak,
Where the sick boughs entwin'd
By mad mistletoes choke,
For these pow'rs are the pow'rs of the dark, from the graves of the lost Druid-folk.

I've included this poem for two reasons: 1. because I like it! and 2.
because it illustrates two important points. The first of those is that form,
meter, and rhyme are tools to build boxes with, not boxes to get stuck
in! Too often I notice a lack of experimentation with these elements (and other
things...) in modern poetry--this when the poet even dares to attempt a
form, which, for reasons I cannot fathom, has become increasingly rare. Most
often, one sees the abab rhyme, lines roughly all the same syllable count, in
iambic tetrameter (four iambs--pairs of syllables, first stressed, second
unstressed) or pentameter (five iambs). Why? Why not do what Lovecraft has done?
Why not write in anapestic dimeter (di=2, for 2 'anapestic' feet--unstressed,
unstressed, stressed=an anapestic foot), with the rhyme ababb, with the fifth
line precisely three times longer than the others? The possibilities really are
endless--literally. You needn't get too fancy about it either, if all this
befuddles you a bit (that's okay!)--a simple abba once and a while would be
nice--or aabb, or ababba--whatever! Use the tools, and build a new box! It
doesn't have to be the most intricate box ever. --Not that there's anything
wrong with abab now and then--just don't be limited to it. 

The second point this poem illustrates is that a poem can be short.
Even shorter than this one! There's no reason to write long poems all the time.
When you've said what you wanted to say--stop. Anything more is just extra--it
will dilute the pure essence that came before. Lovecraft's poem says all it
wants to say--then stops! Sometimes, a poem might say all it needs to after a
single quatrain (I've written several like this). In fact, if we want to push
extremes, two lines ought to be able to constitute a poem!
Three--definitely. Aba, or abb, and you're a poet! (in either case, one of the
lines doesn't even rhyme with anything else--just one rhyme--it's easy!)
Got a bit of time to kill?--write a 3 or 4 line poem! Maybe the first line has 4
iambs (8 syllables), the second's got 3 (6 sylls), and the last has 4 (8
again!)? Whatever you want! Whatever feels right. No matter how
busy you are--there's always time in the day for a poem. You might even compose
it in your head while doing something else--many poets do this, at least with
fragments of poetry. 

Well, there you have it folks. We've looked at some deliciously weird poetry
by H. P. Lovecraft, and maybe even learned a few things along the way. Hope you
had a good time--I sure did. H. P. Lovecraft--a great example of a poet
turned fiction writer, whose early poetic inclinations vastly benefited
his fiction writing career. Seventy-four years after his death, and he's more
popular than ever! Coincidence...? 
                                                           * * *
Do you like to read obscure gems of dark poetry, punctuated by musings on it
sprinkled with occasional mind-searing insights? If you answered "yes," then
keep an eye on things here--'cause there's plenty more coming. There's no
other blog out there like this one, folks--Dark River Press exclusive. Dark
poems, bright insights. 
                                                                                                --K. A. Opperman


  
"The Rutted Road" and "Yule Horror" taken from:

 Lovecraft, H. P. Fungi From Yuggoth & Other Poems. New York:
Ballantine Books, 1971. 

Selections from "The Fungi From Yuggoth" found at:

http://www.hplovecraft.com/writings/poetry/

 *In a few microscopic instances, I have altered (corrected) Lovecraft's text
to illustrate his habitual usage, which was corrupted by the editor of "Fungi
From Yuggoth & Other Poems".