the banshee wails only at night
when the screech owl
and screaming red dreams
add their terrible tenors
to terrified minds
turned and twisted with pain
cruel unbearable agonies
gather and wonder
whose death she forebodes
in her keening
cold and cowled in invisible
shadows the moon hides its
light from the ominous sound
stars blink dim through the
fear in the air
quite the worst kind of fear
that one may be among the
forgotten by this night’s
unnerving lament howled
for some other soul
desperate victims of suffering
yearn for calm morning
for morning is when people die
when some lucky one’s anguish
will finally cease
A curious poem making me think: mythology is harder for the modern mind to shed than is theology . . .
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sounds a bit like Joseph Campbell
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A poem defining pure (even a surreal purity of) torment…very dark, very good…I’ve re-read three times already!
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it’s time you stop the reading and be off to France
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some lovely Gothic touches here – particularly liked “in her keening / cold and cowled” which trips beautifully off the tongue.
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much appreciated, edwin
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A haunting myth of demonic nights and the devil roam about … Thinking of tomorrow one to die, is a frightening thought for sure …
Brilliant.
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the dark thoughts sometimes become poems
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Indeed.
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Love every line. It’s interesting that banshees are always women.
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I suspect it’s due to their soprano credentials
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Hi Paul Thank you for liking my poem Was That A Whisper? Best Wishes The Foureyed Poet.
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most welcome
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Nicely down! What I found most interesting, I was thinking of the Banshee while working on my poem this morning.
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what an eerie coincidence
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Enchanting.
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thanks kindly
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Your poem does the banshee justice. Eerie and spell-binding myth.
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I tried to interpret the myth as I understand it
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I’ve heard her. An unearthly sound I won’t forget, though cowled she was not nor was it by night. All the more unnerving when the only two at home were me and my mum who was terminal. I suspect it emanated from deep inside my mum though she never knew, never heard it nor had ever made such a keening sound before. Pehaps it does come from within. Why else would the wail be so haunting if not that it recognised our own mortality and impending demise? It still gives me shivers to remember and to think she must have known.
Sorry if that sounds a bit depressing but I think we may be our own banshee.
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unnerving seems an understatement of such an experience – I suspect you are correct in that she is within us
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Heh. Cool dark poem.
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glad you liked it, tim
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