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Poetry Friday - Parody of Ulalume by Edgar Allan Poe

10/31/2013

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Once again I find myself writing a parody. This Halloween, I've been rereading Edgar Allan Poe's poetry, particularly Ulalume, which is a haunting poem, but also, I think, funny, because of its melodrama and rhyming pyrotechnics. 


As I pondered this poem, I remembered one Halloween which was kind of interesting. A friend and I had spent Halloween hiking at Maudslay State Park in Newberyport. In our enjoyment of the beautiful fall day and without a sign of any trick-or-treaters, we had forgotten it was Halloween. On our way home to Cambridge, we decided to stop in Salem for dinner. We parked, walked into the heart of the city, and encountered a procession of witches dressed in black capes and carrying candles. I kid you not. Laurie Cabot, herself, led the procession, which was headed for a graveyard. They asked us to join them and offered us candles. Needless to say, we begged off. 


I took some liberties with this story in a short parody of E.A. Poe's Ulalume. I'm not sure this is finished, but here it is:
Witchy Salem

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crispèd and sere--
The leaves they were withering and sere;
On the thirty-first night of October,
The scariest night of the year.
It was hard by the witches’ own city
In the mad, misty city of Salem
It was down by the witches’ brick city,
In the ghoul-haunted center of Salem.

I met a procession of witches
Who said, “To the graveyard we’re bound.
To the vine-covered tombstones we’re bound.”
They said, “You can carry this candle.”
You will have an encounter profound.”
I said, “No, I won’t go to the graveyard.
No, I would rather be drowned.”
But the witch fixed her eyes just beyond me
And I fell in and marched with that crowd.

So I walked with that gloomy procession,
And the witch cackled low in my ear.
Yes, the witch babbled low in my ear.

She spoke of the graveyard in Salem,
The decrepit old graveyard called ‘Mere.’
“You remember the graveyard, my pretty,
Where late in October last year,
A group of men carried your coffin--

A casket of black so severe.



(c) 2013 B.J. Lee All Rights Reserved

Here is the poem I've parodied, Edgar Allan Poe's Ulalume (or, as The Poetry Foundation names it, To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad

To -- -- --. Ulalume: A Ballad
By Edgar Allan Poe 1809–1849 Edgar Allan Poe 


 The skies they were ashen and sober;
      The leaves they were crispéd and sere--
      The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
      Of my most immemorial year;
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
      In the misty mid region of Weir--
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through an alley Titanic,
      Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul--
      Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
      As the scoriac rivers that roll--
      As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
      In the ultimate climes of the pole--
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
      In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
      But our thoughts they were palsied and sere--
      Our memories were treacherous and sere--
For we knew not the month was October,
      And we marked not the night of the year--
      (Ah, night of all nights in the year!)
We noted not the dim lake of Auber--
      (Though once we had journeyed down here)--
We remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
      Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
      And star-dials pointed to morn--
      As the star-dials hinted of morn--
At the end of our path a liquescent
      And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
      Arose with a duplicate horn--
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
      Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said—"She is warmer than Dian:
      She rolls through an ether of sighs--
      She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
      These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
      To point us the path to the skies--
      To the Lethean peace of the skies--
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
      To shine on us with her bright eyes--
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
      With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
      Said—"Sadly this star I mistrust--
      Her pallor I strangely mistrust:--
Oh, hasten! oh, let us not linger!
      Oh, fly!—let us fly!—for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
      Wings till they trailed in the dust--
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
      Plumes till they trailed in the dust--
      Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied—"This is nothing but dreaming:
      Let us on by this tremulous light!
      Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendor is beaming
      With Hope and in Beauty to-night:--
      See!—it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
      And be sure it will lead us aright--
We safely may trust to a gleaming
      That cannot but guide us aright,
      Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
      And tempted her out of her gloom--
      And conquered her scruples and gloom:
And we passed to the end of the vista,
      But were stopped by the door of a tomb--
      By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said—"What is written, sweet sister,
      On the door of this legended tomb?"
      She replied—"Ulalume—Ulalume--
      'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
      As the leaves that were crispèd and sere--
      As the leaves that were withering and sere,
And I cried—"It was surely October
      On this very night of last year
      That I journeyed—I journeyed down here--
      That I brought a dread burden down here--
      On this night of all nights in the year,
      Oh, what demon has tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber--
      This misty mid region of Weir--
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber--
      In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

Said we, then—the two, then—"Ah, can it
      Have been that the woodlandish ghouls--
      The pitiful, the merciful ghouls--
To bar up our way and to ban it
      From the secret that lies in these wolds--
      From the thing that lies hidden in these wolds--
Had drawn up the spectre of a planet
      From the limbo of lunary souls--
This sinfully scintillant planet
      From the Hell of the planetary souls?" 
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Poetry Friday - Roundel

10/17/2013

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First, I’d like to thank Laura Sassi for having me as a guest blogger this past Monday on her blog, Laura Sassi Tales. I blogged about the poetry/music connection and I was delighted that many poets in the Poetry Friday community stopped by!

In honor of the season, I’m posting a scary poem today. This poem was first published in the online zine, Underneath the Juniper Tree in June, 2011, along with the artwork shown. I just recently learned that literary agent, Bree Ogden, is the co-founder and managing editor of Underneath the Juniper Tree.

This poem is a roundel, a form with an interesting history. First devised by Algernon Swinburne, it is the Anglo-Norman form corresponding to the French rondeau. It makes use of refrains, repeated according to a certain stylized pattern. A roundel consists of nine lines each having the same number of syllables, plus a refrain after the third line and after the last line. The refrain must be identical with the beginning of the first line: it may be a half-line, and rhymes with the second line. It has three stanzas and its rhyme scheme is as follows: A B A R ; B A B ; A B A R ; where R is the refrain (from Wikipedia). I know it sounds complicated but it's really not too bad once you get going. The roundel is another favorite form of mine.

This poem also fits into the category of speculative poetry. Speculative poetry is comprised of science fiction, fantasy, and horror (The Science Fiction Poetry Association). For children, that would be mild horror. I love to write speculative poetry. 



And now, the poem:

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artwork by Underneath the Juniper Tree
The Things I Saw
By B.J. Lee

The things I saw when I was lost
and followed signs for "Devil's Claw."
I took that road at such a cost--
the things I saw!

Through forest trees I peered in awe
at witches standing in the frost,
who handled things -- an ear, a paw,

then quickly, in their cauldron tossed

these objects with a birdie's craw.
I turned and fled. My eyes had crossed--
the things I saw!



(c) 2011 B.J. Lee All Rights Reserved
Thank you to Cathy at Merely Day by Day for hosting.
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Poetry Friday: The Mortimer Minute Children's Poetry Blog Hop

10/3/2013

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Hello Hoppers!
It's time for another episode of The Mortimer Minute!

Mortimer's been trying to jump through that Blue Window with little success, since he is such a big bunny and that's such a little blue window. He has befriended the cat, however, and they are getting along famously.

A big thank you to Renee La Tulippe at No Water River for tagging me last week! 

I've posted the bios of the poets I've tagged at the end of this post, along with the dates they plan to hop.

Here’s how to hop “Mortimer Minute” style!

  • Answer 3 questions. Pick one question from the previous Hopper. Add two of your own. Keep it short, please! This is a Blog Hop, not a Blog Long Jump. This is the Mortimer Minute – not the Mortimer Millennium!
  • Invite friends. Invite 1-3 bloggers who love children’s poetry to follow you. They can be writers, teachers, librarians, or just plain old poetry lovers.
  • Say thank you. In your own post, link to The Previous Hopper, then keep the Mortimer Minute going – let us know who your Hoppers are and when they plan to post their own Mortimer Minute. 

Ready? Let’s hop!

Mortimer: Is there a children’s poem you wish you had written?

BJL: Yes, “Walk Softly” by Alice Schertle. This poem is from Keepers. It also happens to be an appropriately ‘spooky’ poem for this time of year!

Walk Softly

Walk softly
in this wood,
where little wispy things
in gown and hood
slide down the dark
and fold their wings.

Shy and hidden
shadow things
of pipe and ring
and strange remember power.
Shadow voices
high and thin
quiver in the wind
this witching hour.

Little fragile fading things
turn watchful eyes
upon me as I pass--
a sudden rustle in the grass
as something flees
before my awful
bone and blood.
Walk softly
in this wood.


~ Alice Schertle, Keepers

Every time I read this poem, I just can’t get over Alice Schertle’s mastery: her voice, her phrasing, her line breaks, her rhyme, and her alliteration and assonance. To me, this is one of her very best poems, although I am in awe of all of her poetry.

Mortimer: Do you have a silent mentor?

BJL: Yes, that would be Alice Schertle. I have other silent mentors, but I have to say, I’ve learned more about poetry from reading and studying Alice Schertle’s poetry collections than from any other poet.

Mortimer: What got you started writing children’s poetry?

BJL: One word – injury. Don’t get me wrong, I had been dabbling in poetry for a long time but I was more into writing fiction and had, in fact, almost completed a novel when I was stopped in my tracks by shoulder surgery. My recovery was marked by a long period of bicep tendinitis – we’re talking two years. I couldn't type; I could barely write longhand. So there went my dreams of becoming a novelist. I turned to poetry because of its brevity, reading all the children’s poetry I could, and then I started writing children’s poetry. And I have to say, I love it even more than writing fiction. So, although I couldn't see this at the time, some good did come out of that painful episode in my life – a reawakening of my poetic skills and a new-found love of children’s literature, especially poetry!

That’s the end of my Mortimer Minute! Here are the poets who will hop in coming weeks.



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Buffy Silverman‘s curiosity about the natural world inspires much of her writing. She is the author of more than 60 nonfiction books for children and has written poems for Ladybug, Spider, Cricket, Highlights for Children, and Know magazine.  Buffy is lucky to live near a lake and woods in Michigan where inspiration abounds. Buffy will be posting on October 11, 2013. www.buffysilverman.com
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LIANA MAHONEY is a nationally certified teacher from upstate New York who writes children’s poetry, educational materials, and non-fiction. Her first picture book, FOREST GREEN, a rhyming non-fiction circle story, is forthcoming from North Country Books. She has numerous poetry credits, including the SCBWI Bulletin, various children’s magazines, online publications, and a poem in the award-winning sports-themed anthology AND THE CROWD GOES WILD. Liana’s poems also appear in various curricular materials with School Specialty, superteacherworksheets.com, and the Core Knowledge Foundation. She believes that a walk in the woods is  one of the best cures for writer’s block, second only to teaching kindergarteners. Liana will be posting October 25, 2013. www.lianamahoney.com
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    B. J. Lee is a children’s author and poet. Her picture book, There Was an Old Gator Who Swallowed a Moth, is launching with Pelican Publishing on February 15, 2019. She has poems in 25 poetry anthologies published by  Little, Brown, Wordsong, BloomsburyUK, National Geographic, Otter-Barry Books, Pomelo Books, and Chicken Soup for the Soul. She has worked with anthologists Lee Bennett Hopkins, J. Patrick Lewis and Kenn Nesbitt. She has written poems for such children’s magazines as Spider, Highlights and The School Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @bjlee_writer.

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