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:
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
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?"
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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