To illustrate some of the results from the tendency I discussed in the post Call of the Wild Poetry a few days ago, here are some excerpts of my latest poetic ramblings, written during the witching hours well after midnight. Some of the sources of inspiration are listed at bottom.
My next assignment, decreed by a fellow writer and writing group moderator, is to make something coherent and cohesive from this raw material. Specifically, I am to write a poem about sea otters, a favorite animal of mine. I’ll let you know how that goes. (Thank the Maker for pushy friends.)
Pelt of sea otter, smelt of sea water, alters no sea urchin with offending stone. Shellfish lose shield, must yield to tool-aided force and survival's will. Predators take many forms. I much prefer the hungry that feast on flesh to the prey who scrounge vegetation. Indications are that eating takes effort, either way. The work yields bounty, if not beauty, blood-soaked canines, blood-stained fur lines licked clean by sandy tongues designed to wrest every last drop and taut tendon from the bones of the prize. Evident before we see it, beast kills beast, eats it. Pagan nature worship, you may call this. Devilish, dripping with sanguine sanctities, the reach for fresh death's witness satisfied. Am I a witch? I only watch and wonder. Make I no potions, in effect, with strange, thundering potency? My hell hound cometh in the darkest hour, seeking orders, release from pain, a resolute cause. Sleeps again. My man stirreth, in turn, from this disturbance. Stealth insufficient gives me up, trades me for its fame. I am discovered concocting. Would one think the house abandoned-- no burning, glowing hearth, no lights electric, no running pipes, no cobwebs swabbed nor sucked away? Such haunts, still inhabited, mummify passively for the unlifted fingers, old with ache rheumatical. A living death, tableau vivant, portrait in aluminum and plaster and vinyl—a faint whiff toxic, worn tight as a swimsuit, as useful for lacking depths to suit it. Still life. The monster is the hideous self of a soul, grotesque before lighted mirror, before conscience denied— the odious decadence, in decay, spoiled beauty, sacrificed grace —before the altar of self-indulgence. The beast is a still, small-voiced mount of a dingy, chalk-paint wall—placed high, once alive, now stiff with memory.
- Outlander themes—e.g., nature of sin, good, evil; archaic superstitions, perceptions; progeny, kin
- Penny Dreadful TV series / Frankenstein / The Picture of Dorian Gray
- The House of Mirth
- love of nature, fondness for predators, natural selection
- taking in the moment, the senses; observation
- supernatural, paranormal, mysterious menaces; foreboding darkness
- threats posed by creativity, independence