Behind the Couch

Evening by evening Among the brookside rushes, Laura bow’d her head to hear, Lizzie veil’d her blushes: Crouching close together In the cooling weather, With clasping arms and cautioning lips, With tingling cheeks and finger tips. “Lie close,” Laura said, Pricking up her golden head: “We must not look at goblin men, We must not buy their fruits: Who knows upon what soil they fed Their hungry thirsty roots?” “Come buy,” call the goblins Hobbling down the glen. “Oh,” cried Lizzie, “Laura, Laura, You should not peep at goblin men.” Lizzie cover’d up her eyes, Cover’d close lest they should look; Laura rear’d her glossy head, And whisper’d like the restless brook: “Look, Lizzie, look, Lizzie, Down the glen tramp little men. One hauls a basket, One bears a plate, One lugs a golden dish Of many pounds weight. How fair the vine must grow Whose grapes are so luscious; How warm the wind must blow Through those fruit bushes.” “No,” said Lizzie, “No, no, no; Their offers should not charm us, Thei...

Yesterday, upon the stair, I met a man who wasn't there He wasn't there again today I wish, I wish he'd go away... When I came home last night at three The man was waiting there for me But when I looked around the hall I couldn't see him there at all! Go away, go away, don't you come back any more! Go away, go away, and please don't slam the door... (slam!) Last night I saw upon the stair A little man who wasn't there He wasn't there again today Oh, how I wish he'd go away... Hughes Mearns (1899)

You heap the logs and try to fill The little room with words and cheer, But silent feet are on the hill, Across the window veiled eyes peer. The hosts of lovers, young in death, Go seeking down the world to-night, Remembering faces, warmth and breath— And they shall seek till it is light. Then let the white-flaked logs burn low, Lest those who drift before the storm See gladness on our hearth and know There is no flame can make them warm. Hortense King Flexner (1917)

Rural Non-Fiction History by McMorr I dwell in a lonely house I know That vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls, And a cellar in which the daylight falls And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field; The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road That has no dust-bath now for the toad. Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; The whippoorwill is coming to shout And hush and cluck and flutter about: I hear him begin far enough away Full many a time to say his say Before he arrives to say it out. It is under the small, dim, summer star. I know not who these mute folk are Who share the unlit place with me— Those stones out under the lo...

Today is National Poetry Day and throughout the UK there’ll be all kinds of poetical shenanigans afoot; readings, performances, launches and such. Inspired by the famed exclamation of Coleridge's mariner - ‘Water, water everywhere’ - the theme of this year’s NPD is, you guessed it, ‘water.’  I thought I'd get into the spirit of the day and post some of my favourite poems here. However, as this is a horror blog, and as we’ve just entered the month of October, I thought it infinitely more fitting to post poems of a somewhat macabre nature: lost souls, haunted houses, devious goblins, that sort of thing. So let us go then, you and I, and turn no more your head, because you know that a frightful fiend doth close behind us tread…  Ghost House by Robert Frost (1913)  All Soul's Night by Hortense King Flexner (1917)  Antigonish by Hughes Mearns (1899)  Goblin Market (excerpt) by Christina Rossetti (1862)