The Most Wonderful Time of the Year...
Welcome to Coffin Hop week! I'm glad you stopped by—with over 90 participants, you've got a lot of pages to visit.
I promise to make this easy on you…
TO ENTER:
"Like" my author page on Facebook http://facebook.com/AshKraftonAuthor
"Fan" me on Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/ash_krafton
"Follow" me on Twitter http://twitter.com/ashkrafton
That's it. I simply want to assimilate you and resistance is hopefully futile.
Once you are thoroughly assimilated, leave a comment here IN THIS POST. (Trekkies may feel free to assign themselves a number of the collective.)
YOU MAY WIN:
Nevermore, by Paul Michael Kane. Selected stories and verse by Edgar Allen Poe with accompanying artwork by some of the most creative comic book artists in the industry. I picked this beauty up at the Baltimore Comic Con this summer.
ARC of M is for Monster, compiled by John Prescott. "Kamikaze Blonde" appears as the letter A story. Winner gets to see what makes it an ARC and learns why I spent a month screaming. It's funny--now.
Some nifty thing I'll pick up at Universal Studios this week. Yep, I'm spending Hallowe'en in Florida, far away from the rainy cold. My blood hasn't made the winter switch yet, despite my cold-blooded nature.
I'll let my tweenaged daughter pick the winners because she is the most random creature I've ever met. She likes ninjas and crossbows and My Little Pony so feel free to play up to her in the hopes she'll pick you. She's easily swayed.
Okay, that's it for the contest. To follow is a tribute to Edgar Allen Poe, whose work is cheerfully depressing enough to make seek out his bones and write poems about them. My poem "Six Words For Edgar" is an award-winning (I totally swear) sestina (see? I'm creepy AND literary) that I wrote after making my kids hang out in his cemetery with me. (In hindsight, I suppose I should be glad my daughter is content with crossbows.)
Good luck with the Coffin Hopping and enjoy!
LINK BACK TO THE COFFIN HOP LIST
Six Words For Edgar: a sestina by Ash Krafton
Never having known the man, I cannot shed a tear.
Yet, I feel sadness as I gaze upon his stone
and tilt my head to catch the echo of imagined cries.
It is but the haunting laughter of a distant crow.
Pondering the bones of he who now beneath me lies
I marvel how departed men can walk among us still.
The sun is warm and no breeze stirs; the trees are tall and still
far removed from harbor's wake where Patapsco zephyrs tear.
Within the graveyard's iron fence, a concrete garden lies.
Long brick paths and grassy patches lead from stone to stone,
and here lies life defeated, where Death triumphant crows,
turning deafened ears toward the moan of mortal cries.
Shall I be a mourner, one whom for the poet cries
and clutches, like a Bible, Edgar's tome of tales still?
The melancholy dreamer who sees raven in the crow,
pressing hand to brow to wipe the pretending tear?
Shall I place my pennies and my grief upon the stone
and whisper prayers of pardon for the one who in dust lies?
I cannot feign emotions and I cannot stomach lies,
even if from Hades should I hear his bootless cries.
Do not think me unfeeling, for my heart's not cast from stone;
I am drawn to the side of his grave and contemplate it still.
Although I neither cry out nor my very clothing tear,
I regret the loss of man and words and rage against the crow.
I seek the path to beauty, as straight as flies the crow,
and peer into my darkest depths. Therein the secret lies:
so sharp and clear the world appears when seen through bitter tear.
From shadows and delusions and nightmares his spirit cries.
The world streaks past but in this graveyard, time stands still
as I reflect upon his life, now carved in stalwart stone.
I will not weep as I repose beside his granite stone;
instead I close my eyes and listen to the callous crow
which from the church's tower calls out, laughing still.
Edgar, it occurs to me your dreams may all be lies,
and yet I long to tread your path. So heed my silent cries--
I give you words, my kindred soul, but not a single tear.
Tear upon tear, no flood can erode stone.
The raucous crow cries
while deep beneath the earth, the still heart lies.
Six Words for Edgar appeared in the Midwest Literary Magazine, October 2010
I promise to make this easy on you…
TO ENTER:
"Like" my author page on Facebook http://facebook.com/AshKraftonAuthor
"Fan" me on Goodreads http://www.goodreads.com/ash_krafton
"Follow" me on Twitter http://twitter.com/ashkrafton
That's it. I simply want to assimilate you and resistance is hopefully futile.
Once you are thoroughly assimilated, leave a comment here IN THIS POST. (Trekkies may feel free to assign themselves a number of the collective.)
YOU MAY WIN:
Nevermore, by Paul Michael Kane. Selected stories and verse by Edgar Allen Poe with accompanying artwork by some of the most creative comic book artists in the industry. I picked this beauty up at the Baltimore Comic Con this summer.
ARC of M is for Monster, compiled by John Prescott. "Kamikaze Blonde" appears as the letter A story. Winner gets to see what makes it an ARC and learns why I spent a month screaming. It's funny--now.
Some nifty thing I'll pick up at Universal Studios this week. Yep, I'm spending Hallowe'en in Florida, far away from the rainy cold. My blood hasn't made the winter switch yet, despite my cold-blooded nature.
I'll let my tweenaged daughter pick the winners because she is the most random creature I've ever met. She likes ninjas and crossbows and My Little Pony so feel free to play up to her in the hopes she'll pick you. She's easily swayed.
Okay, that's it for the contest. To follow is a tribute to Edgar Allen Poe, whose work is cheerfully depressing enough to make seek out his bones and write poems about them. My poem "Six Words For Edgar" is an award-winning (I totally swear) sestina (see? I'm creepy AND literary) that I wrote after making my kids hang out in his cemetery with me. (In hindsight, I suppose I should be glad my daughter is content with crossbows.)
Good luck with the Coffin Hopping and enjoy!
LINK BACK TO THE COFFIN HOP LIST
Six Words For Edgar: a sestina by Ash Krafton
Never having known the man, I cannot shed a tear.
Yet, I feel sadness as I gaze upon his stone
and tilt my head to catch the echo of imagined cries.
It is but the haunting laughter of a distant crow.
Pondering the bones of he who now beneath me lies
I marvel how departed men can walk among us still.
The sun is warm and no breeze stirs; the trees are tall and still
far removed from harbor's wake where Patapsco zephyrs tear.
Within the graveyard's iron fence, a concrete garden lies.
Long brick paths and grassy patches lead from stone to stone,
and here lies life defeated, where Death triumphant crows,
turning deafened ears toward the moan of mortal cries.
Shall I be a mourner, one whom for the poet cries
and clutches, like a Bible, Edgar's tome of tales still?
The melancholy dreamer who sees raven in the crow,
pressing hand to brow to wipe the pretending tear?
Shall I place my pennies and my grief upon the stone
and whisper prayers of pardon for the one who in dust lies?
I cannot feign emotions and I cannot stomach lies,
even if from Hades should I hear his bootless cries.
Do not think me unfeeling, for my heart's not cast from stone;
I am drawn to the side of his grave and contemplate it still.
Although I neither cry out nor my very clothing tear,
I regret the loss of man and words and rage against the crow.
I seek the path to beauty, as straight as flies the crow,
and peer into my darkest depths. Therein the secret lies:
so sharp and clear the world appears when seen through bitter tear.
From shadows and delusions and nightmares his spirit cries.
The world streaks past but in this graveyard, time stands still
as I reflect upon his life, now carved in stalwart stone.
I will not weep as I repose beside his granite stone;
instead I close my eyes and listen to the callous crow
which from the church's tower calls out, laughing still.
Edgar, it occurs to me your dreams may all be lies,
and yet I long to tread your path. So heed my silent cries--
I give you words, my kindred soul, but not a single tear.
Tear upon tear, no flood can erode stone.
The raucous crow cries
while deep beneath the earth, the still heart lies.
Six Words for Edgar appeared in the Midwest Literary Magazine, October 2010
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