Gothic Poetry

I have been thinking a lot about poetry of late. The more I write, the more some form of poem presents itself and becomes entrenched in my writing. I often don’t think about it as poetry, but I believe it is nonetheless. What is it about this form of writing that is both seductive and powerful? Could it be freedom of form? The flowing sentence structure (or lack of)? Some poems are brief, less than a paragraph, while others careen on an endless journey page upon page!

 My favorite writer of poems is of course, Edgar Allan Poe. His Gothic renderings of death, misery, suffering, isolation, and madness are momentous in their offerings and corrupted my young mind the first time I read them. Perhaps that is why when I write a piece of prose that ends up as poetry it is always dark, Gothic, and tinged with a melancholy I do not feel. But, then again, maybe I do but the feeling resides below my cheery exterior and charming smile? Which is it?

 I will never tell, lest I succumb to obsidian depths of doom and despair which threaten to unseat my sanity! Haha!

 Did you see what I did there?

An Ode to Anna

When was the last time I visited you my sweet?

At night, when it is quiet, I can hear your voice.

It wakes me.

I search your side of the bed, hoping to find your warm body resting.

Well, you can rest now my darling.

Free from pain and suffering.

Free from the misery that took the once joyful light from your beautiful eyes.

Now you can rest.

The rest of timelessness.

The slumber of the dead.