Foreword by techgnotic
Fri Oct 21, 2011, 8:23 PM
As Halloween approaches, what better way to celebrate the season when the spectral
boundaries of the Kingdom of the Spirits of the Dead touch briefly with the mystical
edges of the Domain of We the Living than to invoke the battered and hellishly bedeviled
soul of Edgar Allan Poe to guide us in communication between (his) ghostly and (our)
ghastly planes of existence.
Poe invented the “detective” story and was an early father of “sci-fi”, and he was also an
extraordinary poet, but he is best known for his Gothic tales of mystery and abject horror –
nearly all of them anchored in the apprehension of an impending cruel and unnatural death.
Poe had an inventive genius like no other in his imaginings of all the unfortunate ways
one might leave this realm. Adding in his paranoia over his own mortality stoked his stories
to a fevered pitch. His was, in the 1840s, the voice of the emerging modern American, fearful
of the on-rushing future, while struggling to escape the pull of the superstitious past, and
by that struggle driven into a state of neurotic forebodings often crossing over into insanity.
It is ironic and fitting that the master of fearful ruminations of ugly deaths should himself
die a death shrouded in mystery, succumbing, at only age 40, to the symptoms of rabies (the
current best theory), possibly from the bite of one of his own beloved cats.
and horrifically evocative works of art inspired by the deathly imagination of the master himself.
Only the most fearful, fiendish and uncanny deviations on deviantART can do justice to illustrating the diabolical death dramas hatched in the fevered mind of Edgar Allan Poe that still haunt us generation after generation. Just to make this all the more terrifying, marioluevanos and I would love for a devilish detachment of deviants to pick only the most exquisitely terrifying deviations from the entire dA website that are fitting visual explications for the appropriate Poe “death categories”. Just find the perfect deviant artwork(s) for your favorite Poe story or stories, and let us know which matching “death box” your choice(s) should be displayed in. We will then post the deviations to this article in each category leading up to Halloween.
Six Feet DeepShe pondered the moment
As a steel cold rain
Beat wildly against her fragile paled skin
An image appeared
Cloaked in a foggy sort of darkness
She felt a familiar odd sensation
Of impending doom
A shining that blazed
Right between her eyes
Apparent to no one, save herself
Which can only be described
As a tourniquet of soul
Her muse, a thespian of sorts
Lay groveling as sand rains down
Upon his twisted face
She sighs with latent bemoan
The enmity between them suddenly broken
The crack of an ax falling
As it splinters soft wood
A voice in the distance becomes an echo
That of a plastic flower
Faded and parched by the noon day sun
Such an odd realization she thinks
To feel nothing
Even as the tempest grew
The black ocean tide circled and recoiled
Around icy bare feet
He is lost in a fathom...
Six feet deep
A Poet's DiseaseWriting as to blankly curse
Time spent not to reimburse
Drifting away to another land
Gripping a creator in your hand
Inked symbols of creation
Softly scribbling pen rotation
A tension of bleak high
Think like gravity to defy
Written by a vague person
May curiosity not worsen
Pupils shift to heavy sleep
Thoughts through the tool seep
Written by spits of rage
Smudged emotion on every page
Breathing heavy to slow
Words escape not to know
Visualize in your mind
But words are to not find
Great feelings of deep regret
Eyes masked by brow sweat
A dark poet no longer sees
Instead sickened by disease
Overtakes hands to twist
But the writer must persist
Death is crawling to the brain
Ground gripping by a heavy chain
Hands blackened by ink abuse
Wearing a sharing open noose
The diseased poet drops his grip
While ink seeps out from his lip
Disease poet can't finish his work
He has eyes of inked murk
WordsI only have one face, but so many sides
I have one soul, but there's something hides
Beneath my skin, beneath my smile
It's so different with its own sense of style
I am human, I am my feelings
I have no grounds but I have ceilings
I am words, written in poetry
I am bones, lost in a cemetery
Words, with action only towards others
One child with two different mothers
Written on stone, blood is the ink
A rosy flower with a lethal stink
I can't be mad, and I can't be sad
I can't have everything I ever had
One big smiley face with brown eyes
I tell the truth when I tell lies
Can you understand me, can you feel
A heart of ice locked in steel
I won't change, even If i could
I understand the misunderstood
"Such a lucky girl" that's what I heard
My curse is like a hummingbird
I just know my place in life
I'm music with a high-pitched fife
I'm words, just words with meanings
I'm one of Edgar Allan Poe's poems with his raven screenings
Does it make any sense?
I think it's the thought of suspense
Tribute to PoeBuried alive
woke up in the dark
no light at all
not even a spark
begging for mercy
let me out of this prison
it's so hard to breathe
torn out hair
this isn't fair!
Can't you hear me?
I'm still here!
my darkest fear
InspirationInspiration goes where nobody follows.
Inspiration dies, a thousand deaths before our hands.
We mourn for the faint glimpses of life,
Inspiration brings this beauty, a monarch butterfly before its pinned under glass.
To find the right words to say,
to find the right line in a portrait,
to print your words with flowing ink, every day,
is a quest.
a challenge that sometimes even the most desperate of hearts will never accomplish.
There is hope within these few moments,
Inspiration brings these, before they are lost.
Before the cosmos takes our genius and casts it into the wind,
such as the scattered ashes of a loved one.
Inspiration is epic.
A tale told of bravery, romance, sorrow, love and life.
Inspiration is bound,
a slave to our hearts, and to our mind.
Therein lies the most terrible of duels, the most epic of battles.
Neither one will ever win.
Inspiration is oxygen, needed not only to fuel the fire of your body,
but to spark a flame in
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