Romans & histoires Poems Gothic

“Like it’s been burnt – like it’s dead. The next line, it ends with the word hearse. Then, okay: wave, tidal curse – to me, anyway, that sounds like a tsunami, or some sort of deadly environmental catastrophe. And the scariest bit? The word looming.” “How do you know so much about poetry?” I asked. I kept my eyes fixed on the road ahead, but I so desperately wanted to turn as she spoke. Her voice was vibrant, coloured with interest and curiosity. I saw her shrug from the corner of my eye. “We studied it in school recently. I guess some of it stuck. Anyway – I’d tread carefully, Ari. He’s given it to you for a reason. And it definitely sounds as though something is coming. The flood plain is

‘I will write to you,' she muttered briefly, Tilting her cheek for a polite kiss; Then walked away, nor ever turned about. ... Long letters written and mailed in her own head – There are no mails in a city of the dead. Robert Graves[6] Poets make maximum use of the language to achieve an emotional and sensory effect as well as a cognitive one. To create these effects, they use rhyme and rhythm and they also apply the properties of words with a range of other techniques such as alliteration and assonance. A common topic is love and its vicissitudes. Shakespeare's best-known love story Romeo and Juliet, for example, written in a variety of poetic forms, has been performed in innumerable theate

He once read Haggoz the works of an human poet called Poe, then forced him to memorize passages from his poetry. Perhaps he was fascinated by the poet because of his own melancholy nature and yearning for the unattainable. Whatever the reason, one of the lines written by the ancient human poet was particularly appropriate. “I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.” Now, after all this time those words came back to haunt Haggoz. They defined him perfectly too.

Like a flower that loses its beauty; so is the present that is happening to the whole country. Darkness forces beauty to mourn, darkening the happy atmosphere without being prevented. Gloom, that's all that's left. An eclipse comes between freezing snows. However, it actually lasted longer in retaliation for the delay. They said the darkness was created by a child. Dark and terrible poems about it began to surface. The girl fell like drops of rain from above the horror. She stood like a haughty tower in the distance. She limped in a gray cloud, like dawn breathing death.

But my hand closed around empty space. My heart thudded so hard I thought it might crack a rib. I grabbed the poetry book and tossed it onto the bed, pawing through every page, every bookmark, hoping I’d misplaced it. Maybe I’d hidden it between pages, paranoid someone might find it in the drawer. Maybe— But page after page, there was nothing. Just dry printed words about love, death, betrayal and spring. Words that mocked the churning horror blooming in my chest.

I must have dozed off while I was reading earlier. The Poems of Francis Ledwidge – the moth-eaten emerald green book I found in the study – is lying next to my pillow, the gold-embossed oak leaves on the cover glinting in the lamplight. The last thing I remember reading before nodding off was a poem gran had often sung to me as a bedtime lullaby. That book of the page is creased, dog-eared. The poem is about a water spirit who died after falling in love, which seemed to be one of Francis Ledwidge’s favorite themes – doomed love, tragic, beautiful maidens and lots and lots of flowers.

Would it change the fact that they both fucked up bye the will of destiny? The world of Gothic is not that easy, many secrets are ready to be untold. Be ready. Be brave. The secrets of Gothic, what would it be? Are they ready to discover and get this out of the shed? So many untold questions to be reveal. What really happened, to the forgotten era? *** ©Skies Ambrielle