Steven Walker Art and Poetry (under construction)
 | |  | |  | |  | |  |
Steven Walker
| Fairytales, Folklore, Fear and Footnotes Fairytales and folklore full of fear and flying witches, Tales entrusted to our children tiny bastards, little bitches Sing them songs and sounds and psalms to get them right on track They reinvent their own dread poems to break their mother’s back (1) So mother gets angry and loses her head She whips all her children and sends them to bed (2) The youngsters rebel They all want to fight her It’s no wonder that one turns out just like Krajcir (3) Set the canvas on the easel painted with the blood-popped weasel (4) Good Miss Muffet runs away (5) The spider is the one to stay The mother, who’s a farmer’s wife Chops up beasts with a carving knife (6) And as a plague invades the town Burned to ashes, kids fall down (7) As seasons turn, increase the fright An evil queen turns Cenobite (8) and when those things bump in the night it’s then that teens desire a bite of decadence, lust and flesh forbidden fruit that’s fresh Their telltale hearts cannot resist (9) parted ankles and shackled wrist And once desires have been explored They’ve lived and loved, they’ve whored Have they had their fill of gore, or do they desire to have some more? It’s at this time the people split beyond the scope of cock and tit Some embrace ideal Prince Charming Others crave a life alarming Regardless of their different views The fairytales remain the muse that’s passed on to the little ones and feeds the cycle once again (10) 1 A reference to a children’s rhyme, “Step on a crack and break your mother’s back.” The original version of this rhyme “Step on a crack and your mother will turn black,” is believed to come from the late 19th century revolt against the emancipation of African slaves and eventually developed to its current form in the mid-twentieth century. 2 A reference to the nursery rhyme, “There was an Old Woman who Lived in a Shoe.” 3 Timothy Krajcir (pronounced cry chur), a narcissistic sadist who became a serial killer is profiled in the Pinnacle true-crime book, Predator, (Kensington 2010) by Steven Walker. 4 This song can be traced back to the mid-nineteenth century, when a music sheet acquired by the British Library in 1853 described a dance, “Pop! Goes the Weasel,” which was described as an old English dance performed at Her Majesty's & The Nobilities Balls. The American version released in 1914 changed the lyrics from “The monkey chased the people” to “The monkey chased the weasel.” 5 “Little Miss Muffet” was one of the most popular nursery rhymes printed in the twentieth century. The rhyme first appeared in print in 1805, in a book titled Songs for the Nursery. Like many such rhymes, its origins are unclear but some scholars claim that its origins date back to the 16th century. 6 A reference to the English nursery rhyme, “Three Blind Mice,” originally published in 1842 but an earlier version published in Deuteromelia (1609) implies that the mice were skinned, gutted and eaten. 7 English nursery rhyme often associated with the Great Plague of London in 1665 when a rosie rash accompanied the sickness, pockets full of posies were meant to protect people from contracting the disease believed to be spread by odors, and bodies were disposed of by cremation. 8 A reference to the characters created in Clive Barker’s novella, Hellbound Heart. 9 The Tell-Tale Heart is a short story by Edgar Allan Poe first published in 1843. 10 A deliberate attempt by the author to break away from the rhyming scheme at the end to make a point that regardless of what is expected, something unexpected can take place to break the chain of events that feed the cycle expressed in the poem. |
| (Fairytales, Folklore, Fear and Footnotes): The rhythm here seems to roll easily off the tongue in a way that hides the fact that there is inconsistency threaded throughout the entire poem. The use of multiple rhyme schemes in various stanzas, (aaaa, aabb and abab) and the various lengths of the syllables in the lines that are incorporated to slow or quicken the pace, become less noticeable and keep the style undefined somewhere between the realms of free-verse and any specific structured form of poetry. The use of alliteration in such lines as “Fairytales and folklore full of fear and flying witches,” (1-2) and “Sing them songs and sounds and psalms,” (5) provides the reader with smooth fluidity, and when combined with the fact that each stanza consistently contains four lines, an unscholared reader might readily assume that a specific structured and defined form of poetry is being presented. |
Continually under construction
Nothing Else Matters (1)
Which witch can stitch my torn and broken heart? I’ve reaped what I have sown, and wish
to keep what I still own from spilling through the hole in my soul and scattering along the road
on which I travel. And so I need a witch to sew the hole in my torn and broken soul.
Though steer and stare spelled differently; tear and tear remain the same. You tore the
tear that caused the tear and pain. You ripped a hole to spill out all my sane. And through your
eyes, I see how you despise me. But vision clear and you not here, reveals your view is not
here nor there or anywhere. You wanton witch…you want to steer me clear.
So now which witch can cast her spell to hypnotize and mesmerize me? Refill the hole
inside my soul. Stitch it shut and make me whole again. I stare into the air with such despair,
and call upon my sister, Hecate. (2) She once came to tell good fortunes for King James. I ask
her now for me to do the same.
Tragic if a loved one’s lost to lack of life while love still lingers. But ten-fold feel the pain of
love one-sided…love that’s chided, rejected and in vain. Love lost to lack of life tastes of
bittersweet pain. Love lost but lingers and alive one-sided, tears a hole that spills out sane.
There is no sweet; just bitter pain. I shall never be the same.
Why? Why? Why? Alone I hide to cry. Laughter, lust and loving show their shadows in my
eye. But in her memory, all those things are lost. Just pain and discontentment…a decade was
the cost. She blames me for so many years just wasted, and forgets the fresh fruit gladly
tasted. She throws what she conceives as traits that she’s displeased with, upon my image and
my name. She points away to redirect the blame. Yet all those traits I’ve cast away, and she still
owns them every day. I’ve tried to stand by with support, but only met with great retort. I’ve
finally come to last resorts…to find a witch to stitch my broken heart, and sew the hole in my soul
to make me whole again.
But I can only see her face…breathe in her scent, her taste. And I melt to wrap my arms
around her; feel her in my space. No witch can take her place. Each day I pray my longing will
erase.
And if I found a witch with an itch to stitch me whole, I’d be selling off my soul, by causing
her to pay a toll that can’t be sold, because my heart is still on hold. My love was promised
beyond our getting old.
A witch has come with pointed steel and thread. She claims to know just how to
sew…repair my heart, my head. But I approach with dread. All the while, I smile. I spend my
time and ease my mind with witches who beguile. Still I know, it's just a show, to hide the pain I
dare not face to know...a place I fear to go...admit the pain of loss I cannot throw away. Instead,
I cling fast to false hope of happiness someday. I fill my hours hoping to devour the pain away,
knowing that it stays. I look the other way. But still I see the sight of sorrow's sullen symphony
sounding loud enough inside my soul to sear my heart and tear the hole I need to stitch. I'll use
a witch to scratch my itch, but the scars are here to stay.
(1) Song by "Metallica," that was chosen by the author and his second bride as their wedding
song because of the its significance regarding the virtues of love and trust between two people
and the ability to live life on their own terms while diminishing the importance of how outsiders
view them.
(2) Reference to Macbeth, by William Shakespeare
Which witch can stitch my torn and broken heart? I’ve reaped what I have sown, and wish
to keep what I still own from spilling through the hole in my soul and scattering along the road
on which I travel. And so I need a witch to sew the hole in my torn and broken soul.
Though steer and stare spelled differently; tear and tear remain the same. You tore the
tear that caused the tear and pain. You ripped a hole to spill out all my sane. And through your
eyes, I see how you despise me. But vision clear and you not here, reveals your view is not
here nor there or anywhere. You wanton witch…you want to steer me clear.
So now which witch can cast her spell to hypnotize and mesmerize me? Refill the hole
inside my soul. Stitch it shut and make me whole again. I stare into the air with such despair,
and call upon my sister, Hecate. (2) She once came to tell good fortunes for King James. I ask
her now for me to do the same.
Tragic if a loved one’s lost to lack of life while love still lingers. But ten-fold feel the pain of
love one-sided…love that’s chided, rejected and in vain. Love lost to lack of life tastes of
bittersweet pain. Love lost but lingers and alive one-sided, tears a hole that spills out sane.
There is no sweet; just bitter pain. I shall never be the same.
Why? Why? Why? Alone I hide to cry. Laughter, lust and loving show their shadows in my
eye. But in her memory, all those things are lost. Just pain and discontentment…a decade was
the cost. She blames me for so many years just wasted, and forgets the fresh fruit gladly
tasted. She throws what she conceives as traits that she’s displeased with, upon my image and
my name. She points away to redirect the blame. Yet all those traits I’ve cast away, and she still
owns them every day. I’ve tried to stand by with support, but only met with great retort. I’ve
finally come to last resorts…to find a witch to stitch my broken heart, and sew the hole in my soul
to make me whole again.
But I can only see her face…breathe in her scent, her taste. And I melt to wrap my arms
around her; feel her in my space. No witch can take her place. Each day I pray my longing will
erase.
And if I found a witch with an itch to stitch me whole, I’d be selling off my soul, by causing
her to pay a toll that can’t be sold, because my heart is still on hold. My love was promised
beyond our getting old.
A witch has come with pointed steel and thread. She claims to know just how to
sew…repair my heart, my head. But I approach with dread. All the while, I smile. I spend my
time and ease my mind with witches who beguile. Still I know, it's just a show, to hide the pain I
dare not face to know...a place I fear to go...admit the pain of loss I cannot throw away. Instead,
I cling fast to false hope of happiness someday. I fill my hours hoping to devour the pain away,
knowing that it stays. I look the other way. But still I see the sight of sorrow's sullen symphony
sounding loud enough inside my soul to sear my heart and tear the hole I need to stitch. I'll use
a witch to scratch my itch, but the scars are here to stay.
(1) Song by "Metallica," that was chosen by the author and his second bride as their wedding
song because of the its significance regarding the virtues of love and trust between two people
and the ability to live life on their own terms while diminishing the importance of how outsiders
view them.
(2) Reference to Macbeth, by William Shakespeare