‘Strangulation’ by Marge Simon
In the ‘November in Poetry’ column, poet Wendy Rathbone touched on an eternal truth that is so vital that I wanted to follow up on it. Wendy spoke of the ‘earliest and best known darker tales’ being poems:
“Beowulf,” “The Iliad,” “The Odyssey.” Dark poetry continues throughout known history from Dante’s “Inferno” to Milton’s “Paradise Lost” to William Blake to Poe.
This month, I’d like to go back even further in time, to show just how important the darkness has been, not just to poetry, but to all literature.
One of the oldest surviving works of literature is the Epic of Gilgamesh. It dates all the way back to the 18th Century BCE. For those unfamiliar with the story, here’s a really short recap:
Gilgamesh, King of Uruk, is friends with Enkidu, a wild man created by the gods as Gilgamesh’s peer to distract him from oppressing the people of Uruk. Together, they journey to the Cedar Mountain to defeat Humbaba, its monstrous guardian. Later they kill the Bull of Heaven, which the goddess Ishtar sends to punish Gilgamesh for spurning her advances. As a punishment for these actions, the gods sentence Enkidu to death.
Gilgamesh’s distress at Enkidu’s death causes him to undertake a long and perilous journey to discover the secret of eternal life. He eventually learns that “Life, which you look for, you will never find. For when the gods created man, they let death be his share, and life withheld in their own hands.”
Doesn’t really get much darker than that, no?
It has been four thousand some odd years since the time of Gilgamesh, but a vibrant, vicious thread of darkness has haunted poetry for every one of those years. And celebrating that thread is the purpose of the Horror Writers Association Poetry Page.
Modern horror poetry owes a tremendous debt to Gilgamesh’s friendship with Enkidu. As Gilgamesh faces the inescapable fact of his own death, he leaves a haunting legacy to literature. Death is the one constant, throughout history, across the world. In every language there are poems that deal with the end of life, with what lies beyond. And in the poetic search for poetic answers, every poet who has ever put pen to paper (or blood to papyrus or stick to cave wall or fingers to keyboard) has discovered different questions to ask about that darkness.
Whether it is the monster under the bed or the witches in the attic or the creature coming up behind you, the poetry of horror and the horror of poetry are intertwined. In dark poetry we seek the truth without blinders on, shining light into the darkest corners, ripping off the bandage as quickly as possible.
And in the scares, in the fear, in the chills and the bumps in the night there is the ancient knowledge that the darkest of poetry shines a light on the greatest truth.
“Hi, my name is Peter Adam Salomon, and I’m a poet.”
“Hi, Peter…”
Yes, it sometimes feels as though poets live such anonymous lives (and need 12-step recovery programs to retain some shred of sanity). The goal of my tenure as Poetry Editor of the HWA Poetry Page will be to alleviate some of that anonymity.
Whether you call your own poems Horror Poetry, or Dark Poetry, or something else, by any name, this page is here for you.
First, a little about myself.
While my publishing credits are in novels (specifically YA Horror. My first novel, HENRY FRANKS, published by Flux in 2012, was called ‘The thinking teen’s horror choice of the year’ by Booklist. My next novel, ALL THOSE BROKEN ANGELS, a ghost story, will be released in Fall 2014 by Flux. I have always thought of myself as a poet. Some of my oldest poems date back to when I was only seven years old and the majority of them have a definite affinity for the darkness.
Most recently, I served on the Poetry Jury for the 2013 Bram Stoker Award and my resolution for 2014 is to actually publish some poetry.
To give just a little taste of my own poetry, I’ve chosen one poem to share today.
The reason I picked this particular poem is because it’s representative of my voice, the rhythm and the vague sense of unease that whispers beneath the words. If you were to ask ‘what does this mean?’ I’d have no answer for you. It means nothing and everything and anything, as all poetry should mean. As all of life contains both the shadows and the light, dark poetry illuminates the darkness and casts wicked shadows across what precious light remains. Come explore the shadows with the HWA Poetry page and the poets of the Horror Writers Association.
☠
The Soul To Save… by Peter Adam Salomon
the blood to taste to drown the kiss knife touch through the sigh illusion caresses memory and understanding is a lie rape the tenderness to touch the ritual this realm of sanctity religion tastes of human flesh as the blood runs down they pray their souls to save and yearn to touch the wicked…
the sane to cry to sleep the dream touch tears through the kiss vision caresses sensuality and comprehension is a crime innuendo tastes imagination violates the ritual the prayer is vanity the wish is just a need religion tastes of human flesh as the blood runs down I pray my soul to save and die to kiss the wicked…
So, without further ado (and there’s been a lot of ‘ado’ so far), it is now February 2014. As you may (or may not) know, this is also Women in Horror Month. To celebrate, I’ve asked some spectacular HWA poets to share some of their love themed horror poetry with us (it is, after all, also the month with Valentine’s Day). I hope you enjoy! If you have any comments or suggestions or submissions for future months of the Poetry Page here at HWA, please email me at poetry@horror.org. Thanks for visiting!
☠
Love’s Ritual Goblet by Terrie Leigh Relf (published in Letting Out The Demons and Other Poems, 2013)
When you first press love’s ritual goblet to my lips, it burns. . .
Long before I take the first drink, I know this is madness. Even as your eyes bore into mine, your hands grip me tighter within your arms while you whisper, “Invoke chaos with me?
Say you accept.” I say, “Yes”, and am thrown off a cliff where I take wing on your breath just before reaching the ground.
You press the cup to my lips again, and the poison seers through me until submerged beneath glacial ice, I can barely breathe.
Say you accept.” I don’t want any more, can’t take anymore, but you urge me to keep drinking until I don’t know where I end and you begin, where you begin and I end. . .
Say you accept.”The vortex is spinning and I remember something you once said about the antidote being the poison and so I take hold of the goblet, drink deeper until the dragon awakes within my belly opens its eyes, uncoils.
Mother cannot help me now, Persephonae realized… by Terrie Leigh Relf (published in Letting Out The Demons and Other Poems, 2013)
for she is gone a thousand years, and I am left to fend for myself against these men who would feed me fruit, speak of love, but lie, lie, lie.
☠
Pandora by Marge Simon © 2011
She never looks back on what she finds, or what she kills, never asks questions, doesn’t care.
That was her mother’s undoing, not hers.
Pandy plays games of her own design, her box (if you will) is not what you think.
She’s all about leather, the chains and the tether. With velveteen gloves she wields her whips
more than one at a time— a cat o’ the nine, she delights you, excites you teases to please, kissing your arse with a bit of class,
tonguing her whips, she rips that sweet skin from your bones,
all for a rapture of her own.
Queen of the Purple Night
by Marge Simon © 2011 in The Mad Hattery
She comes when you are ready to accept that which you wish, the answer to your last dream, the one that you ran from all your days. She comes in the moments before waking, before you can rub the dark away, or turn off your alarm. She comes soft robed in purple flames, sweet as some familiar fantasy you never could remember, sings you back to forever sleep in the arms of her dark hair.
‘The Feral’ by Marge Simon
☠
Heart of the Matter by Linda Addison published in Consumed, Reduced to Beautiful Grey Ashes (2001)
I want to enter your beautiful blue veins dance in sweet plasma tango with precious blood cells rush eagerly to the citadel of life and there accept the sweet embrace of your relentless love.
One Night Stand by Linda D. Addison, published in Deadlines magazine (1994), reprinted Animated Objects (1997)
They met at a singles bar
and at first glance she knew it was love deep and true,
and at first touch he knew it was love slick and cool,
and at first kiss they knew it was love wet and hungry,
and at first bite he knew it was over.
☠
https://staging.horror.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/09/Strangulation.jpg|https://staging.horror.org/wp-content/uploads/2026/09/The-Feral-72dpi.jpgStrangulation.jpg|The-Feral-72dpi.jpg