That bloody park is found across the road
Vagrants exploding in every mode
Mongooses and green monkeys roam
Toads paddle in twisted foam
Tainted colors explode
Where foul scents abode
In land-filled loam
Genre - Syllabic Poetry
Form - Free Verse
Tags - Gothic imagery, decimeter
Comments on - Dee Park
The poem “Dee Park” falls into the genre of free verse but with some conditions placed on it. You are puzzled by this statement, no doubt. It is free verse because it does not comply with rules that apply to fixed form poetry. As long as poems do not comply with rules governing closed form poetry they fall into the category of free verse or open form poetry.
This poem glides along on syllabic count in which each line must adhere to a specific syllable count, and the length of the poem is restricted to ten lines as shown below:
Line 1 = 10 syllables
Line 2 = 9 syllables
Line 4 = 7 syllables
Line 5 = 6 syllables
Line 6 = 5 syllables
Line 7 = 4 syllables
Line 8 = 3 syllables
Line 9 = 2 syllables
Line 10 = 1 syllable
There comes a time when a poet feels compel to write dark poems, perhaps as a way to maintain equilibrium or to confront catharsis. Dark poems not only feed on such morbid images portraying death, suffering, and erosion of society’s moral compass but about anything with a dark twist. Dark poems are cathartic in nature and Gothic by birth. Gothic poetry or Gothic horror merges elements of horror and romance. “Dee Park” is a short poem and falls into the category of a modern Gothic poem. The imagery painted leads the mind to thinking of those obnoxious, pesky creatures bundled with sense of polluted waters and vermin like ants excavating the loam in the dusk for whatever reasons cannot be pretty, for dark deeds tend to be prevalent in the haunting silence of the night. Gothic foot-prints are evident in “Dee Park”.
Among my favorite American poets, Edgar Allan Poe is in the loop and he wrote Gothic poetry as seen in his poem “Alone” shown below.
From childhood's hour I have not been
As others were; I have not seen
As others saw; I could not bring
My passions from a common spring.
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow; I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone;
And all I loved, I loved alone.
Then- in my childhood, in the dawn
Of a most stormy life- was drawn
From every depth of good and ill
The mystery which binds me still:
From the torrent, or the fountain,
From the red cliff of the mountain,
From the sun that round me rolled
In its autumn tint of gold,
From the lightning in the sky
As it passed me flying by,
From the thunder and the storm,
And the cloud that took the form
(When the rest of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my view.