In March: “Superior Achievement in Poetry Collection” Nominees
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One more month until the HWA Horror Poetry Showcase Submissions Open!
To celebrate National Poetry Month, the Horror Writers Association will be holding their second annual HWA Horror Poetry Showcase in April 2015.
Open to all poets, the Showcase will be accepting submissions throughout the month of April with four poems chosen by HWA member judges to be honored on the HWA website.
Submission Guidelines:
Submissions will be accepted via Submittable from April 1-30, 2015 and all rights will remain with the poets. Those interested in submitting should visit www.horror.org on or after April 1 to access the submissions link. Submissions are open to all, whether HWA members or not.
We are looking for more than “blood, guts, worms,” etc. Just being “icky” isn’t enough. Poetry up to fifty lines. Free verse preferred; (hint: no forced rhyme or clichés). Unpublished poems only (though previously published poets are, of course, welcome). For example, these are some contemporary poets of darkness that we admire: Wendy Rathbone, Marge Simon, Mary Turzillo, Bruce Boston, Gary Clark. Previous winners include Stephanie Wytovich, Robert Borski, Valerie Grice, and Ann K. Schwader.
In addition, at the judge’s discretion, an electronic chapbook of qualifying poems will be considered for publication under the aegis of HWA. Each poem chosen for publication will be paid $5.
For the 2015 Showcase the judges will be Linda Addison, Peter Adam Salomon, and Heather Graham.
Linda D. Addison is the award-winning author of four collections of poetry and prose and is the first African-American recipient of the HWA Bram Stoker Award®. She has published 300 poems, stories and articles and is a member of CITH, HWA, SFWA and SFPA. See her site: www.lindaaddisonpoet.com for more information.
Peter Adam Salomon is a member of the Society of Children’s Book Writers and Illustrators, the Horror Writers Association, the International Thriller Writers, and The Authors Guild and is represented by the Erin Murphy Literary Agency. His debut novel, HENRY FRANKS was named one of the ten ‘Books All Young Georgians Should Read’ by The Georgia Center For The Book in 2014. His second novel, ALL THOSE BROKEN ANGELS, has been nominated for the Bram Stoker Award in the Young Adult category.
His poem “Electricity and Language and Me” appeared on BBC Radio 6 performed by The Radiophonic Workshop in December 2013. In addition, he edited the first book of poetry released by the Horror Writers Association, Horror Poetry Showcase Volume 1. See his site: www.peteradamsalomon.com for more information.
Heather Graham is the NYT and USA Today bestselling author of over two hundred novels including suspense, paranormal, historical, and mainstream Christmas fare. She lives in Miami, Florida, her home, and an easy shot down to the Keys where she can indulge in her passion for diving. Travel, research, and ballroom dancing also help keep her sane; she is the mother of five, and also resides with two dogs and two cats. She is CEO of Slush Pile Productions, a recording company and production house for various charity events. See her sites: www.theoriginalheathergraham.com and www.writersforneworleans.com for more information.
February 28 marks the beginning of the Final Ballot for the 2014 Bram Stoker Awards! For the complete list of nominees, go here: https://horror.org/final-ballot-bram-stoker-awards/
The HWA Poetry Page is only interested in the five nominated works for Superior Achievement in a Poetry Collection:
Robert Payne Cabeen – Fearworms: Selected Poems (Fanboy Comics)
Corrinne De Winter and Alessandro Manzetti – Venus Intervention (Kipple Officina Libraria)
Tom Piccirilli – Forgiving Judas (Crossroad Press)
Marge Simon and Mary Turzillo – Sweet Poison (Dark Renaissance Books)
Stephanie Wytovich – Mourning Jewelry (Raw Dog Screaming Press)
To honor each nominated work, HWA asked each nominated poet a very simple question:
HWA: What is your favorite poem from your nominated collection?
Without further ado, here are those poems. As a special treat, in addition to the text of each poem included here, the HWA Poetry Page is very proud to present an audio recording of each poem!
Robert Payne Cabeen – Fearworms: Selected Poems (Fanboy Comics)
Robert chose “The Promise.”
The Promise
A moonlit beach near Mazatlan, the only thing that you have on— Your tan line and a necklace made of shells. You dive into the emerald sea and in the current, drifting free, Your perfect body sways beneath the swells. I join you as the waves roll in and as I touch your cool, wet skin, We slip beneath the heaving ocean’s roar. We move as one. I hold you tight. Our pleasure fills the Aztec night. We wrestle in the whitecaps by the shore.
But, that was then and this is now,
before I swore that ghastly vow.
Running through the falling snow,
a winter wind begins to blow,
The fur around your collar frames your face. As we talk our whispered words
steam the air and fly like birds,
Then disappear—gone without a trace.
We find a shelter from the storm—
an empty cabin, dry and warm.
You brush your hair as I light a fire.
Our clothes are wet—all soaked through.
We take them off. I reach for you.
You pull me close, as the flames burn higher.
But, that was then and this is now,
before I swore that ghastly vow.
Before the comet’s tail rained from the sky.
Before we had survived a year—
survived the panic and the fear.
Before the restless dead refused to die.
I beg you not to let her in.
Her bones show through her sallow skin.
You wipe your tears and open up the door.
I hold you back, but you break free.
You cry, “She wants to be with me.”
I say, “She’s not your mother any more.”
The creature lurches in the room.
She reeks of death and cheap perfume.
I raise my gun and pull you to my side.
You bolt to her—one last embrace.
She strokes your hair, then bites your face.
The gaping wound is jagged, deep, and wide.
But, that was then and this is now,
and I have sworn a solemn vow—
A painful promise I intend to keep.
I swore that I would give you rest.
I promised you and crossed my chest,
That if you turned, I’d give you endless sleep.
I’m as empty as this empty gun.
No bullets left—except for one,
A final gift, with love, from me to you.
I wish it were a diamond ring,
or any other pretty thing.
If only there was lead enough for two.
—Robert Payne Cabeen
Listen to “The Promise”
Corrinne De Winter and Alessandro Manzetti – Venus Intervention (Kipple Officina Libraria)
Alessandro chose “Waiting”
Waiting
The Reaper rolls up the sleeves
of her black robe,
the orbit of her right eye
is crushed, damp
on the lens of the telescope.
She observes the Earth
the herds of souls
tossed in those fragile bodies
—the human race—
Mechanism of the flesh, nothing else.
Her cave on the Moon
is cold
she has no skin, no fat, no pulp
no blood flowing
but something warms her up.
The underworld fans
blow inside her
boiling circuits, geometry of magma.
The Acheron arteries
are pulsating.
The Reaper looks for her prey
to the east, and then south.
There are many heads to be cut today
—expired heads—
Then the telescope frames, once again
a man, always him
sitting in front of his house
“He’s a jerk!”
thinks the Reaper.
He’s still waiting for his bitch (to come back)
He’s been filling the lens of her telescope
everyday, for two months.
The Reaper checks up
the red sand of her big hourglasses
—rustle of time, of ruins—
“There’s time for an extra service”
the Reaper whispers.
She wants to open the stupid head
of that man who continues to wait,
she wants to pour out his melted dreams.
The man has been annoying for too long
her telescope, her hard work.
It’s so absurd to wait for
a whore among millions
that will never return.
The Reaper wearing a black helmet
turns on the engine of her flying machine,
quickly runs to the South.
The terrestrial sphere expands
the oceans seem to drip
at any moment.
She lands in front of the man.
He looks up
from his imaginary crevasse.
He stares into the metal eyes of the Reaper
then shifts his gaze to the sickle,
something that glows in the dark
—finally—
The man stands up
spitting his thoughts
“I was waiting for you. Let’s get out of here.”
The Reaper understands, suddenly,
to be his second wife.
—Alessandro Manzetti
Listen to “Waiting”
Corrinne chose “What Opens You”
What Opens You
Will the instrument be a memory
With deft fingers,
Or a blind angel with small hands
That finally opens you?
Will it come from below,
A siren with hair of sea foam
And razor sharp claws?
Will it be faith,
Solemn and fleeting,
Or bright birds
Returning from the south too soon,
Starving for spring’s fever
In the cold afternoon?
Or will it be a bloodless star,
Depleted of wishes, that,
Like lightning in a night sky
Will split you in two?
What will open you?
Will it be
Your own wilderness
In the shadows of dark rides,
Where the rush
Is that of a seashell
Pressed to the ear
In the dog days of July?
What will open you,
Sweet one?
—Corrine De Winter
Listen to “What Opens You”
Tom Piccirilli – Forgiving Judas (Crossroad Press)
Tom chose “Forgiving Judas”
Forgiving Judas
I am Lazarus sliding the stone aside,
groping in darkness, mute, choking on the black
Without even the squeaking of rats or bats
to guide me back to the world,
God’s light fails, God’s voice is an immutable breath,
I await the angry angel Azreal to commit me
to the pit, as I sit and patiently await for Lucifer to visit.
I have lost all dreams,
all fantasies, all memories
And given them to the dust,
except for when I write and come alive.
At thirteen I awoke in the morning angry and mean
And stayed that way for twenty years.
Would I have thought so much of suicide if I only knew how hard
I would one day fight for my life?
I remain stolid and solid only because I am stuffed
Full of regrets, fears, cancer, love, and sins.
If only my mother could forgive me for my aimless transgressions,
My ingratitude. My betrayals. My lack of a kind word. My inability
to speak my heart and thankfulness.
Outside the rock are sacrifices left behind. Oil and lamb and dried fruits
I eat in the moonlight. I wash with the oil and dream to burn
It’s the only yearning
The finality of my learning.
There is so much drama, theater, posturing, and screaming.
You all need to just calm the fuck down
Like all those nice cool, quiet people in the ground
I have lived many lives
And then the dreams come with tidal force
Where I awaken without knowing where I am,
Who I am,
Who my wife is, or remember how to breathe.
And I live somewhere else,
And my wife is someone else,
And I am someone else.
I sweat in fear, in acknowledgement of madness,
The taste of seaweed kisses in my mouth,
In the throes of darkness on my belly.
I have lived many lives at night.
The alternate dimensions of possibilities confront
Each other between midnight and dawn. Perhaps I’m
A boxer, or a chef, or a cop, or a billionaire philanthropist
With a carload of kids. We’re off to a picnic, a school play,
The choir, a soccer game, sometimes I’m dead, sometimes
I’m somebody named Ted, or Al, or Bill, or Fred. And when Fred
Goes to bed, he sometimes sees me, peering at him from inside
his head.
—Tom Piccirilli
Listen to “Forgiving Judas”
Marge Simon and Mary Turzillo – Sweet Poison (Dark Renaissance Books)
Marge and Mary chose “Eolian Conscientia”
Eolian Conscientia
The song at midnight
began soft, beseeching,
but burningly sweet, as if from some other star.
pianissimo melody
the moon flickering through clouds
sunlight on a child’s hair
The volume so low at first
the people thought it a hymn in their heads
something each had heard long ago,
that song that makes you first realize
that all things die eventually,
that you will therefore die,
but because of the brave music,
death is right, it is fine.
dedicated moments
homages to dead heroes
a canticle, a requiem, a dirge
Not human voices, but canny, wise even.
And the song grew louder
as the chorus swelled
joined by sea creatures, bats, blind frogs,
insects with human eyes, and yes, angels,
accelerando accompanied by Bosch
a world of dreams and nightmares,
as forms flicker and change within notes
angels with throats made of molten metal.
Their harmonies drilled into human ears,
a wire strung too tight,
black noise behind telephone silence, except
louder and loudest,
and people tried to make out the words.
Some began to preach the words
that apes could sing hosannas
but they were just sounds,
there was no sense to them
just the smothering membrane of song,
a cloud too loud to be music
more like jet engines
pelting, irradiating, throbbing,
as it drove even old men mad,
and mere humans lay on the ground
twisting to escape the music, or maybe to join it,
to get inside it, to let it inside them,
though it screamed, it burned,
like electricity in your forehead exploding forever,
gaining forte, volcanic
as a revolution of exponentials,
a demonic ensemble
and then it crescendoed:
sforzando.
Ears bled, eyes shriveled, song seized tongues,
and all men and women joined the chorus
the chorus coaxing death, insisting.
Except me
except me and some others
deaf from birth.
the lucky ones,
lacking tympani
We had felt the thrumming
had seen the folk convulsing on ballroom floors.
Fear drew us together
clutching at phantoms of an unholy opera
we were not privy to attend
Now we are left
and nobody can describe the song
but we must bury those bodies
anointed with death’s perfume
and hope that the song does not get in our heads
though I begin to hear it
even as my wife described it
talking with her quick fingers.
beyond the cochlea’s fluid,
Munch knew it as a scream
in blood red clouds
I run to the caves
which will not hide me.
—Mary Turzillo & Marge Simon
Listen to “Eolian Conscientia”
Stephanie Wytovich – Mourning Jewelry (Raw Dog Screaming Press)
Stephanie chose “Dare I Keep the Body”
Dare I Keep the Body
The first time I saw a dead body, I wanted to keep it,
to hold it close and never let it out of my sight. It was
the most alive thing that I’d ever encountered and after
years of feeling stagnant, of feeling stuck, I finally came
back to life with the simple sight of his glazed-over eyes.
So I took him. I dragged him out to my car and placed his
corpse in my backseat and drove home as if it was just a pile of
groceries back there, as if it was a bad egg that soured the smell
and not the stench of his rotted flesh.
But then I couldn’t leave him.
I wanted him with me everywhere I went, so I cut off one of
his thumbs and stuck it in my jacket pocket. I’d finger it
sometimes—scratch and pick at the nail when I got bored—but
then I wanted more of him with me, on me. I took a lock of his hair
and put it in my locket so it hung down next to my heart. I yanked out
one of his molars and sucked on the tooth when I missed his taste.
And when I really needed my fix, when I knew I couldn’t be without
his touch all day, I’d sew a patch of his skin inside my bra
so I could feel him on me, always close, always near. It may
not have been a conventional romance, but our relationship thrived
until he withered away, decomposing like a banana peel in my backyard.
I buried him, along with my dirty secret, under the flowerbeds, and now
I smile every time I pick a rose. The girls in my office love them. They say
they bring the place back to life.
—Stephanie M. Wytovich
Listen to “Dare I Keep the Body”
Finally, this incredible post simply would not have been possible without a GREAT deal of help. I am deeply indebted to everyone involved for a number of reasons. Most importantly, the nominations were announced on Feb. 23 and thanks to the incredible generosity of certain people this column managed to be put together with text and audio in a matter of days.
First, to the nominated poets who managed to answer their email and respond to me with their favorite poems (and permission to use them) quickly enough that I was able to send them on to be recorded, thank you! Best of luck to all of you!
And, thank you to Leland Pitts-Gonzalez, who, every month, takes my column and makes it into a page on the HWA website, for not even questioning why I wanted to include audio and then just making it happen.
Finally, and most of all, to Viktor Aurelius (who was interviewed by the HWA Poetry Page last month: https://horror.org/february-viktor-aurelius-gothic-poetry-hwa-horror-poetry-showcase/). Viktor, under the weather and all, took the time to record these poems in a matter of hours, giving HWA the opportunity to present text and audio from each of the nominated works! This column wouldn’t be what it is without his generosity and talent.
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