Death:no cure for selfishness

He claimed he had not known. Could not admit
He’d chosen to ignore the good advice given by a holy God.
Now he lies in torment, longing for relief.
“Send Lazarus to help me,” cries this once wealthy man, now poor, held fast
In Satan’s clutches.
“I am indeed a most important man and Lazarus is but a lazy beggar.
Let him bestir himself from heaven’s porch
to venture down below a little while to quench my thirst in this accursed heat.”
Lazarus the Good is willing, but God smiles in sorrow. Were it but so easy.
It is impossible. Death's boundaries are set.
He had his chance whilst yet he lived in luxury, uncaring of the poor.
Now, too late.

Insane revenge

‘Twas last year I lost my lover, she who left me for another.
Tho at first I dwelt in sorrow, baring all my soul to borrow
Strength from friends and family, still none came to rescue me.
Sleepless nights became my friends, hours and hours without end
Accompanied by fevered plans of revenge taken by my hands
Until at last the ideal plot occurred to me: my soul grew hot.

How I rejoiced in jubilation at my perfect calculation.
How all would see and all would wonder at revenge taken on the Other.
No comeback would he ever dare for none could ever reach me there.
That place of refuge, sanctuary would surely enough protection be.
Without delay I carried out my scheme without a care or doubt.
Straightway with her I was united; troth for eternity was plighted.
But still my plans had gone all wrong: for Death had had her all along.

Angels and Demons

The sky darkened. With a roar
of earth-deafening proportions,
an incandescent sphere
exploded, scattering limbs, claws and teeth in all directions.
Lights flickered, lapsed
Into darkness.
Then silence.
A luminous shape stirred at the point of impact.
Nearby, dull black body parts picked themselves up and reformed.
Grotesque shapes advanced, menacing, towards the glowing figure.
Fingers reached out, lips snarled, teeth were bared.
The angel was surrounded.

Grave matters

Solitary in the graveyard
stands the building, a chapel
of unease amid the peace and silence.
With captive menace, a door ajar invites me in.
An empty space of dark and cold
holds fears and dread.
Inside the darkness
fears take solid form.
Unyielding, they seize my heart
in relentless grip.
The black possesses me.
I am buried alive.

Haunted

Pebbles left outside my door. Twigs crossed on tracks.
Dead birds. Skeletons of fish.
Silent curses shriek in ragged tatters
As wind howls around the house.

I did not mean to kill him. It was not at all my fault.
Why then does he haunt me in such relentless fashion?
In solitary misery I walk the dog along the beach.
Sand squeaks beside me: no one there.

Yet as I step along a muddied shore I see
My footprints are not alone.
The marks left from my own two feet are sunk below a heavier tread.
I try to run.

Here are the adjudicator’s comments:

HAUNTED SUCCESS FOR MPIRA IN PITS & CRYPTS
As is becoming usual, we had another huge entry for our monthly Arena competition with over 60 entries posted to the site. Plenty of hair curling entries, but the eventual winner was the subtle spinetingler, Haunted by mpira.

Adjudicator's Report - Magdalena Ball

Certainly these are haunting poems. Set in their chilling, death ridden, crypts and underworld, they cast a cold fear through the reader in a way that is appropriate for a “Pits & Crypts” contest.

Many of the poems here do take their cue from Poe’s work, and that’s fine: Poe is a wonderful source of inspiration. But Poe was also a strong critic of the cliché and the obvious, famously stating that that meaning in literature should be an undercurrent just beneath the surface.

Works with obvious meanings, he wrote, cease to be art. So too, do works where rhyme, even clever rhyme, becomes an end in itself, overwhelming the meaning of the work. The rhyme and rhythm needs to support and drive the overall purpose of the poem and not the other way around.

Many of the poems were too overt, with the horror explicit, or where both meaning and originality were sacrificed in order to get the rhyme. Instead of focusing on the singsong line ending, the poetry would have done better to focus on strong imagery, original metaphor, and the intensity of the emotion and the meaningful twist of the denouement.

Where subtlety, horror, and skill combined however, the poems became universal, tapping into the deepest fears of the human psyche and creating a breath-holding moment. Unfortunately that was rare, which isn’t surprising, as creating good horror in verse is no easy task.

One poem that succeeded wonderfully in doing this was mpira’s “Haunted”, which featured an internal haunting: the pain of a guilty conscience. Imagery here was strong, as the reader follows footsteps along the beach past dead birds and fish skeletons. The shock of an unrhymed and inexplicit ending works well, and allows the reader the freedom of imagining a conclusion far scarier than any spelled out one could be.

An inconsequential curse

“Curse you!” From nowhere came the screech of crazy woman on the beach.
The staring eyes, the ugly face of one who thought we’d stole her space.
Wide-eyed, my child spoke not a word as overhead a scream of birds
Added to the evil wish: on the rocks there lay dead fish.

We hurried off; all fun had gone. Deserted sand now left alone
We scurried homewards hand in hand, wishing not our ground to stand
For right to play as we would wish; for on the rocks there lay dead fish.

We’d left the shore to cross the road when suddenly a stock car towed
From a racetrack near at hand veered off the street towards the strand.
My child was there. I tried to snatch his hand - too late. I could not catch
His life to keep it safe and sound. Yet still I hear his voice around.

Tears: the water of life

You are not empty.
You are full of tears.
These are the water of life
To those who need it.
Rejoice that
You are full of tears.