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
Ants decode
When gloam
Falls
(April
2006)
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.
Alone
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.
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