Not The Wind
Your body filled with a dreadful chill,
Started at your table, and the white old quill.
Windy night, the quill moved mild,
You grew to become the switch, searching for mild.
No light came, the bulb became useless,
Your idea of going again to the mattress.
Suddenly noticed, quill moved slight,
You approached, with all your might.
Not the wind, window turned into closed,
Heart raced, a message exposed.
You study in horror, ink become pink,
“Not the wind, pass lower back to bed!”
That feeling like you’re all by myself,
They’re all long gone, you seize your smartphone.
Quickly scrolling via your list,
The phone is bleeding down your wrist.
You carry the smartphone to your ear,
Low sad voice, you begin to listen.
Voice whispers, don’t look lower back,
You slowly look, it’s all black.
Dropped the smartphone, as you run,
You fall over, a bloody gun.
In your pocket, you pay attention a hoop,
You reach in, you experience a sting.
Poison hits you, right away,
It is clear, you are the prey.
You look back, they lay by myself,
Holding on, to their cellphone.
Woke one night, with a cache,
Hair was soaked, pillow stain.
There became nothing I ought to listen,
A human shadow did appear.
Slowly crept out of bed,
Stunned I stood, as I bled.
Could now not hear the dripping sound,
As my blood, soaked the floor.
Could not move, I was engrossed,
As I stared at the ghost.
He changed into missing his proper ear,
There’s a ghost in my room,
And a Witch on a brush,
Vampires underneath my mattress,
A headless monster in the shed.
All these characters are pretty scary,
The Werewolf could be very bushy,
They constantly seem to seem at night time,
To protect me, I want a Knight.
Which one do I worry about the most?
It’s gotta be that unpleasant ghost,
Always on foot without ahead,
He calls himself, Mr. Fred.
1. “The Raven” through Edgar Allan Poe
Grieving his useless love, Lenore, the speaker is disturbed by using a ceaseless tapping at the door. He opens it to first—eek!—nothing. Then comes the raven, who stirs and intensifies the speaker’s grief with the aid of croaking out, over and over, the fateful unmarried word “nevermore.” See how Poe makes use of repetition to construct the poem’s momentum, how the meter hurries up together with your breath. No balm awaits: the raven remains, terrorizing and haunting. Will Poe’s hero escape it?
Till I scarcely extra than muttered “Other buddies have flown
On the morrow he will depart me, as my Hopes have flown earlier than.”
Then the fowl said “Nevermore.”
Costume how-to: The Bereft. Dark pouches below bloodshot eyes, hair and garments unkempt, with a chunk of paranoia tossed in to underscore your inconsolable sorrow. (Hint: Have a paper due? Pull an all-nighter or two.) Must-have accent: The raven (crammed?), of course, with its darkish, oily feathers and beady eyes.
Creepy truth: The cause of Poe’s death remains a mystery, but has been variously attributed to alcoholism, cholera, syphilis, mind ailment, and, lately, rabies.
2 and 3. Two poems via Louise Erdrich
These poems are examples of the dramatic monologue, a form in which there’s a speaker and an implied listener, and wherein the reader perceives a distinction between what the speaker says and what he or she famous. This shape turned into delicate and practiced through several Victorian-generation poets, maximum notably Robert Browning.
“The King of Owls” via Louise Erdrich
Insanity haunted the French king Charles VI, turning him right into a monster. As the tale is going, his court docket invented the primary gambling cards with hopes of curing him. In this dramatic monologue, the poem’s voice fuses the king’s madness with the playing cards and their patterns, and the speaker’s tyrannical voice succumbs to his paranoia.
I have to have silence, to listen the messenger’s footfall
in my brain. For I am the King of Owls.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Lords, I sharpen my talons to your bones.
Costume how-to: Choose your in shape! Those from that first deck of Charles VI’s encompass doves, peacocks, ravens, and owls.
Creepy fact: The speaker of the poem, Charles VI, suffered from periods of psychosis all through his existence, and at unique times would wander round his palace howling like a wolf and believing he was product of glass.
“Windigo” by using Louise Erdrich
Windigos, legendary creatures described in Ojibwa and other Native American folklores, are starving human beings whose hunger makes them prone to a violent spirit that overwhelms them with an irresistible urge to prey upon and devour—ew!—other humans. The narrative on this poem comes from Chippewa stories wherein a younger female overpowers this wintry beast and frees the human that also exists at its icy middle.
You knew I become coming for you, infant,
whilst the kettle jumped into the fireplace.
Costume how-to: Umm, the windigo? When you hit the gown shop, bear in mind that the windigo is a near relative of the werewolf, the Sasquatch, and the abominable snowman. So take your choose, but heighten the fright by way of supplementing your monster with props that betray its cannibalistic urges, along with a decapitated head or severed arm.
Creepy reality: Windigo is likewise a psychiatric circumstance that has been determined in a few cultures wherein troubled sufferers accept as true with they’re, in truth, possessed via the windigo, and begin to peer the people around them as fit to be eaten.