Archive for vampire poetry

“Thalia” to appear in Spectral Realms #9

Posted in Ashley Dioses, Black Hymeneal, Black Light Verse, Gothic Poetry, K.A. Opperman, Literary Journals, Poetry, published poems, S.T. Joshi, Spectral Realms, Thalia, vampire poetry, Weird Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 23, 2018 by Manuel Paul Arenas

In my recent effort to join in on the current weird poetry renaissance happening in the literary genre journals, I joined a few forums on Facebook that focused on the writing and publication thereof. I have enjoyed my interactions with other writers on these forums, some familiar, others not so much, but each one respectful of the other and willing to lend a hand or give a friendly word of encouragement to their fellow scribes.

That being said, it was on another forum dedicated to a particular poet (whose name I shall withhold for privacy reasons) where I saw a post announcing the acceptance of one of their poems to the journal Spectral Realms. I offered my congratulations and mentioned how I’d always longed to get published in that particular journal but always seem to miss the submission date. Besides, I said, I was terrified of having my work dismissed by editor S.T. Joshi, adding that I would be crushed if he deemed my work unworthy of appearing in that esteemed journal.

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Spectral Realms #1, Summer 2014.

 

My poet friend’s response was to submit something right now. Unsure of what I read, I asked whether that meant they were currently taking submissions. They replied in the affirmative. I then asked whether there was a link to follow and they said no, but would send me the contact info. I then got a private message with Mr. Joshi’s contact info and instructions to mention their name in the body of my message of introduction. I was stunned. I quickly popped in my USB with the manuscript for Black Hymeneal and pulled up my poem “Thalia”, which I had been considering for The Audient Void, copied and pasted it into a fresh document, which I then attached to an email for Mr. Joshi. Oh, and I forgot to mention that during all this my time on my library computer ended and I had to pull everything up all over again on an express computer 3 minutes before the library closed for the night!

It got through though, and Mr. Joshi was very complimentary, calling it “a fine poem”, but asked if I would either add punctuation myself or trust him to do so for me. I told him that punctuation was not my forte and that I trusted his judgment to make the appropriate adjustments. He seemed pleased. Now I await further instructions on how and when to submit my bio. If all goes as planned, this will be my first proper publication, aside from a vanity press publication of Tasty Little Muffins. I hope it shall be the first of many yet to come.

PS: For the curious, a recording of me reading “Thalia”, accompanied by moody music and images from my 2015 Gothic photo shoot by Hydroxia may be found in the “About” section of this blog.

PPS: I have decided to reveal the identity of the poet who so graciously facilitated the publishing of my poem as I think it’s only fair to give credit where credit is due: It was Miss Ashley Dioses, a young poetess out of California whose book Diary of a Sorceress (2017, Hippocampus Press) is definitely worth adding to your weird poetry collection. Her beau, K.A. Opperman also has a great collection of poetry entitled The Crimson Tome (2015, Hippocampus Press). I shall write a post about the both of them in the near future.

Update 5/29/2018:

Just received a message from Mr. Joshi requesting a bio, and sent him the one I cooked up for my Manuscript of Black Hymeneal. Spectral Realms #9 should be coming out in July, and I will post an update when I receive my contributor copy.

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“Black Hymeneal” Reboot

Posted in Black Hymeneal, Gothic Poetry, Gothic Prose, Poetry, vampire poetry, Weird Poetry with tags , , , , , , on June 16, 2017 by Manuel Paul Arenas

My first poetry collection, “Black Hymeneal”, is back on track. It will not be the beautiful book I envisioned so long ago, but it will at least get out into the world. It shall not feature any specific artwork. Unfortunately, my friend Michele has some pressing familial responsibilities which have taken precedence (understandably) over helping to complete the artwork for the book, so I am going to just continue without it at this point. Perhaps someday we can collaborate on a portfolio of the completed artwork she did for the book, if the collection proves to be successful enough to warrant that. Her lovely artwork deserves to be seen, and I hope some day it will be. I appreciate the hard work she did and the help she gave me in showing me the ropes of the publishing business. I shall never forget her kindness.

The table of contents for the new book has changed, since I have decided to pull a few pieces for another planned collection of song lyrics for my old band, The Dark Young. More on that after I get “Black Hymeneal” into the world.

The new selection is as follows:

01. Manurog
02. Hell-flower
03. Thalia
04. Witch’s Tit
05. Sor Maria and the Devil, Luzbel
06. Krampus
07. Manqueller Manque
08. Moribond
09. Skull in an Ice Cream Cone
10. HPL RIP
11. Broceliande
12. Love Song of a Lugubrious Gondolier
13. Black Hymeneal

I have already begun retyping the manuscript and adding new introductions for the poems. My goal was to be ready to publish by my 50th birthday in August. We’ll see if I can make the deadline. Keep your eyes on future posts with updates.

The Bed

Posted in Gothic Horror, Gothic Poetry, Poetry, vampire poetry, Weird Poetry with tags , , , , , on July 22, 2015 by Manuel Paul Arenas
  • Part one of the Greenwood Manse Poetry Cycle. For more on that, go here: https://mannysbookofshadows.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/the-greenwood-manse-poetry-cycle/

    The Bed

    In my Grandmama’s house, there is a room decorated in the most sublimely under stated way;

    and it is in this room that I customarily retire to, when I occasion to stay

    Within this quaintly curious room of quiet disquietude, there is an ebony-posted bed,

    which is my favorite place, at the day’s end, on which to rest my head.

    It is an old family heirloom, which belonged to my Great Aunt Lucretia.

    She spent the last six months of her life in it, wasting away from consumption and dementia.

    It all started when she lost her lusty young lover to the sickness known as anemia.

    She became listless, wan, and her behavior grew quite unseemlier.

    She slept till late in the day, spent all of her time, and took meals in her bed;

    as she pored over many a tome of eldritch lore, and was called upon by many self styled communers-of-the-dead.

    As her illness progressed, they put her into trances to see if it could be divined what her ailment might be.

    But mesmerism was indeed not the answer, and she deteriorated not just in body now, but also mentally.

    She commenced to cry out in the middle of the night, and when asked what was wrong

    would rant about shroud-clad revenants, with eyes of fire,breath so foul, and eye-teeth sharp and long.

    These stories were met with much consternation and disbelief,as she was assumed to have gone mad.

    But when she spoke of having been made love to by the cadaver of her beloved, they destroyed all of the occult books she had.

    They say she died on the eve of May Day, and a ghastly shriek was said to have reverberated throughout the household.

    They found her in her bed, wide-eyed, bloodless, and in her fist–something clenched in a death-grip hold.

    Well, after some time, when rigor mortis gave way, they found what that something had been.

    It was apparently a torn ear, a right ripe ol’ piece of carrion, all putrescent and green.

    But that was long ago, and what need have I to fear old ghosts and undying loves?

    For I am a smart young lass; virginal, pious, and pure as the snow white dove.

    I say my prayers each night, and although I may indulge in a good ghost story now and again,

    I steer clear of such writ of the like which my aunt treasured so and helped to drive her insane.

    So when she comes to my bedside in the wee hours, with her cadaverous visage and sepulchral breath,

    I recite some old psalms, and clutch the crucifix, which rests on my young tender breast.

    And when she finally leaves, a-hissing and spewing curses foul, with her one-eared lover in tow,

    I whisper my grateful thanks to God, let out a nervous chuckle, pull up the sheets, and dream about the evening’s show.

    Image of a Victorian bed which approximates what Lucretia's four poster might have looked like.

    Image of a Victorian bed which approximates what Lucretia’s crib might have looked like.

The Greenwood Manse Poetry Cycle

Posted in Greenwood Manse Poetry Cycle, Poetry, vampire poetry, Weird Poetry, werewolf poetry, Women Wielding Words in the Alley, Words in the Alley with tags , , , , , , , , , on July 22, 2015 by Manuel Paul Arenas

Back in the 1990’s I wrote a couple of Gothic Horror poems about a family, over the span of a few generations, focusing on strong female characters and told from the point of view of an unnamed young woman in Victorian times. The name “Greenwood” is a reference to the street I used to live on in Seattle, and the manse is the place where all of the action in the cycle takes place. In “The Bed”, the young woman tells a tale of how she liked to stay at her grandmama’s house (the aforementioned manse) and sleep in the ebony posted bed of her great aunt Lucretia, who was haunted by a dead lover. In the sequel, “Luvian’s Pelt”, she tells the tale of her great uncle Luvian who is brought to his doom by his sorceress wife. There is a third poem telling a tale from when her grandmama was a girl, but it remains unfinished. Perhaps some day I shall complete it and create a chapbook featuring all three poems.

In October of 2014, my friend Hydroxia read the two completed poems at Women Wielding Words in the Alley. She looked lovely and did an awesome job. If and whenever I finish this last poem I hope to have her read it as well. For more on that event, see here:

https://mannysbookofshadows.wordpress.com/2014/10/09/women-wielding-words-in-the-alley-10-07-14/

For the poem “The Bed”, go here: https://mannysbookofshadows.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/the-bed/

For the poem “Luvian’s Pelt”, go here: https://mannysbookofshadows.wordpress.com/2015/07/22/luvians-pelt/

Early Poems

Posted in colored pencil illustration, Gothic Poetry, illustration, lyrics, Poetry, vampire poetry, Van der Graaf Generator, Weird Poetry with tags , , , , , , , , , , , on July 18, 2015 by Manuel Paul Arenas

I recently discovered some illustrations I’d done, circa 1992-93, for some of my early poems and wished to share them with you all. They were outlined using fine point colored pens, then filled out with colored pencils.

The first one is “Coup de Corps”, a prose poem, where I compare vampirism to spiritual highjacking…

“Coup de Corps” 1992.

“Coup de Corps”

It’s rather like watching a horrible scene without being able to close your eyes; or being a helpless and unheeded passenger on an endless nightmare ride throughout eternity.

My body is it’s own master. When I speak, the words are not my own. I sit in a cavern somewhere in the pit of my heart and await the day when it is pierced, and the walls are broken which enclose me in this rebellious, sanguinary shell gone mad.

*

Next is “The Necromancer”, which I intended to be a lyric for a possible song from my days in the Gloom Twins duo. We actually came up with a tune for it, driven by a dissonant organ riff (a la Van der Graaf Generator) but it never got past the early development stages. There is a clumsy reference to the Necronomicon, because I was just really starting to delve deeply into the Lovecraft Mythos at the time, otherwise it’s a bit more Faustian in tone. I was never quite happy with the result, but here it is in all of it’s awkward glory, accompanied by an illustration which I am rather fond of. On the shelf is Lovecraft’s Necronomicon, Robert E Howard’s Unaussprechlichen Kulten, and, my own creation, the Grimorium Iuvenis Oscurum.

“The Necromancer” 1992.

“The Necromancer”

I have delved into the realms of darkness, and spoken to the dead

Called upon the daemons who send servants in their stead

Made sacrifice to devils, paid tribute to their Lord

In return for youth and power and jewels for my hoard

The blackest of books I have read, the cursed rites of Abdul Alhazred

Mad Arab’s testament for which he was torn to shreds

Necronomicon, Book of the Dead

Dealing with tricksters, which don’t keep their word, sifting through their lies

Tempting me to leave my circle, I never meet their eyes

The darkest of pleasures I have sought

Untold destruction I have wrought

The blackest of majicks were my tools

But they, in turn, used me–and I am the fool!

Now I have asked for much, without considering the cost

And in my lust for power, my immortal soul I have lost

Within my dying breath, I see Lilith come to me

To burn me with Her infernal love, and down to Hell then drag me

*

Last, but not least, we have an illustration for “My Friend Boris”, which really was written about a spider that lived in my bathtub in Hartford, CT circa 1988. It later became a poetry piece for my old band The Dark Young. Again, that’s supposed to be me, but it doesn’t really look like me. By the way, , FYI; I feel obligated to point out here that I have never sported a mullet, my hair is tucked behind my ears here–LOL!

"My Friend Boris" illustration, 1992, by yours truly.

“My Friend Boris” 1992.

“My Friend Boris”

A spider Lives in my bathroom; today I gave it a name. I called it Boris; I named it after a song.

I hope it’s a boy. After all, I wouldn’t want to offend it in any way by giving it a name of the opposite gender, now would I? Why, I hardly even know it yet!

Boris keeps me company when I’m bored and lonely–what a guy that Boris is.

I don’t know what he lives on. I suppose the baby roaches which I see crawling in and out of the cracks in the walls.

What a nasty fellow that Boris is! Imagine, feeding on babes! Oh well, different strokes, different folks.

Just the same, he is my friend. He is my familiar, Boris is, and I think I’ll let him live.

To roam and feast on his cockroach critters and any other little beasties and vermin which may come to call–uninvited.

What a guy that Boris is, what a guy!