Given the week that it is, I decided to bring this poem back from the dead…..
Thom Yorke takes a walk on Halloween Night
The dead move slowly
through the graveyard,
they are few at first
but as they pass
each row of headstones
grey fists punch
through mounds of earth
in a manic salute
and the throng grows
and the throng grows
and the night howls
and the fog curls
and a thin cloud
bisects the moon
and at the edge
of the graveyard
is an old well
and at the bottom
of that well
is a little boy
and that little boy
is crying for help
and that little boy
is Thom Yorke.
Taking part in earthweal’s weekly challenge, below is Brendan’s multi-faceted prompt, something there for everyone:
Tell your own story of a descent into darkness and return.
Write of moonshine and dark brightness.
Encounter a ghost and haunt us with its image and voice. Who are these visitants from what Hamlet called “the bourne from which no traveller returns”?
Are the elven still to be found in moony places?
Re-live a classical remake ofthe myths, like Poe’s “Masque of the Red Death” Colerige’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” or Spenser’s Faerie Queen.
What is your favorite folktale, and why? Where has it led you?
Would anyone like to turn present politics into an All-Hallows fright feast? (Such a telling does might help drive a stake into our worst fears.)
Stopdraggingthepanda 
A strong progression of lines to a stunning ending, Jim. A poem imbued with the mood of Halloween, especially this year. The little boy in the well (I had to look up who Thom Yorke is) reminded me of the children still in cages at the southern border.
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Thanks Sherry!
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The haibun I wrote yesterday would probably fit into this prompt. Maybe I’ll link it. Thom Yorke is an odd duck but what a talented sexy odd duck he is. I wish he could read your poem.
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Yes Thom is a strange one, great band.
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That explains his tortured singing style, for sure! I enjoyed the echoes of a ghost story I remember from my childhood which begins ‘On a dark, dark night…’ and ends with a ghost.
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The poem came to me while listening to Radiohead!
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He’s still crying. (K)
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Hypnotic pace there and whoda thunk we’d find Thom Yorke down there. And like Ingrid said, sure explains a lot. Thanks for irrupting it for us at earthweal – B
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My pleasure Brendan!
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I like the pace and progression of this poem, Jim, as if I’m walking with the dead, and the way it comes to a crescendo:
‘and the throng grows
and the night howls
and the fog curls
and a thin cloud
bisects the moon’.
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Thanks Kim
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What a scary story. I have nightmares about falling down old mine shafts. Your poem really spoke to me of my darkest moments.
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What a scary story. I have nightmares about falling down old mine shafts. Your poem really spoke to me of my darkest moments.
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