Melodies XLIX; Lines In A Rural Churchyard, Near Bly

As far as this old graveyard's width allows

from all those congregated Celtic crosses---   

their weathered surfaces with vines or mosses,  

covered; and each of them a sacred marker  

over interred remains of some believer---  

you faithless bones lie.  To that damned deceiver  

(the grinning offerer and stern refuser;  

himself, chief deputy of the Accuser),  

you proved what he had deemed your little worth,  

when you relinquished life and chose to die. 

Now you cling to this small, square plot of earth  

(a place neither of your death or your birth),  

dreading the clanging of the steeple bell; 

hoping for dismal days and nights made darker 

by clouds (sun, moon and stars bring twisted scowls 

to your cadaverous and spectral face).  

Condemned, preliminarily, to silence  

unable to even utter a curse, 

on the looming eventuality 

(a ghastly prospect, infinitely worse 

than this paranthesis in time and space 

that you must haunt now)---the grim destiny, 

the given sentence and the penalty 

for proud and unrepented perfidy; 

unmitigated, writhing agony

without respise throughout eternity--- 

the spot reserved for you, alone, in hell,

into which, in good time, you must be put 

(no matter now how much you plead and cry)

wild storms of pain and self-inflicted violence,

more ravenous than death (as you now know).

Relentless, imprecative and uncouth,

is your resentment of one vital truth,

that you and your tormentor have, both, hated:

the love shared (and expressed in sensual joys)

between those lovely, adolescent boys

(sons through adoption, not by blood related,

now resident at---and the heirs---of Bly)

long-haired; in summers, shirtless and barefoot

(though, sometimes, their fawn-gray socks are grass-stained)

who by their obvious anatomy

are meant to be entirely masculine

(although romantically too feminine,

too much steeped in a girlish, pastel tint;

so often said the quite elusive, Quint,

strutting pretense to real authorities---

with no effect on Miles and Florio).

At his mention,  a rather fetid breeze

begins to swirl around you:  it will blow---

a miniscule tempest---a little while,

bearing the rotten odor of his guile:

that you bore just to please his slightest whim,

willing to offer your whole self to him,

(to him to be enslaved and dominated

no matter how ravaged or violated;

no matter how bound---shackled, roped, or chained)

until he broke you to a shattered vessel,

and no more gazed upon you with that leer,

nor granted you, just one more chance, to hear

that lurid and snidely contemptuous sneer,

that you learned from him to adore, Miss Jessel.


Starward

 
Author's Notes/Comments: 

The poem is a response to Henry James novela, The Turn Of The Screw; and was written, mostly, during a viewing of the great film based upon the novela, The Innocents, directed by Jack Clayton; which, in my opinion, is one of the greatest and most chilling horror films ever produced.


The framing and narration of James' text has been subjected to very interesting debate among literary and academic scholars---especially with regard to the presence of an unreliable narrator.  In my poem, I wanted to suggest that the unreliability is written into both the main narrative of James' text and the two frames that surround it; and that the tale was both censored and altered in order to disguise the relationship between Miles and Florio.


While I was at work on the second draft of the poem, I received a message from Patriciajj that was so serendipitous that it resolved some immediate doubts I had while bring the draft from its first, raw form (in which I had lost track of several of the rhymes) to its corrected version---which is what is posted here. 


The poem also attempts to propose a reason for hauntings.

 

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patriciajj's picture

I searched for a video of The

I searched for a video of The Innocents after reading this bone-chilling creation so I could better understand the reference. I believe Netflix has a remake or something loosely based on the story, not sure, but I'm certain it doesn't have the psychological impact of the original. 

 

Thank you kindly for the acknowledgment. I'm thrilled that you found motivation to bring this work of art to fruition. 

 

You didn't miss a beat as you swooped into the forbidding gravescape and addressed the "grinning offerer and stern refuser; /  himself, chief deputy of the Accuser" (Fantastic word-spinning!) who is experiencing a reprieve from something worse than "this paranthesis in time and space". (Shudder) With Shelleyesque flair you described his fate and his vile essence oozing with everything contemptible. 

 

The poem took a heart-rending turn when you introduced the victims in all their guileless love and barefoot charm. 

 

Superbly penned and dripping with horror. Simply unforgettable. 

 

 

S74rW4rd's picture

Thank you very much for that

Thank you very much for that comment!


As I recall, the Netflix version is actually an episodic t.v. series.  I looked at it briefly, but even a couple of moments' viewing prove that it does not carry the impact of the novela, or the film.


I was in elementary school the first time I saw the film, and I never forgot how shocking it was without being, in the least, graphic like the slasher films that would be coming in the next two decades.  I like it better than them.


Thanks again for the kind words.


Starward

patriciajj's picture

I agree, the subtle

I agree, the subtle productions of the past had a greater emotional impact. Thanks for the heads up about the Netflix series. I know not to waste my time. It's always a pleasure reading you.