Here be a poem in four
to the theme of murder galore;
to the first let it be said it’s my own
so do not take it to be a clone;
and the next shall I say,
well it’s just some word play;
but the third be a creeper
and the last no cheaper.
Ballads of butchery that barb the breath,
Lyrics of lynchings that leave life lingering,
Ferocious free verse that frays the fervor,
Cantos of carnage that creep the conscience,
Triolets of terror that tempt the temperature,
Ditties of destruction that dampen the disposition,
Haikus of homicide that haunt the heart,
Melodies of manslaughter that melt the marrow,
an outright one-way opera offing
to stanzas that slay
and rhymes that rub out.
by matt at shadow of iris
with the golden glow of imagination
a scene of stillness
steeped and transfigured
by the dream-like vision
of the fairest natural landscape.
on calm water
lapped in a green hollow.
by the lonely shore
and haunts these woodlands wild.
Under precipitous cliffs
a small crater-like hallow
of the mountain side
where Nemi is perched
stands a scared grove
A grim figure prowls
far into the night
sword drawn priest
by matt at shadow of iris
The above poem is merely word play following from page 1 of sir James George Frazer’s excellent The Golden Bough.
A Murderer’s Thoughts
My soul’s in deepest hell tonight;
The fiends around me snarl and bite;
Their savage jaws all drip with blood,
Surging o’er me a crimson flood.
Dread Spirits hasten from the bier,
And taunt me with a mocking sneer;
Gaunt furies, with their eyes ablaze,
Approach and stare me with amaze.
Each devil holds a glass on high;
The wine is blood unto my eye.
“Drink! drink!” they cry, in mocking glee;
“Thy food to all eternity.”
They hold a knife with each hand.
“Strike! strike! It is a murderer’s brand!
Nay, shrink not back in coward fear;
It is they trade!” And then they leer.
Each prison-stone appears a corse,
That to my soul brings fell remorse;
I fling myself into the dust.
Dread punishment, but just. ‘Tis just.
From Sculpture Poetry by Angelo.
From Agnes, a poem
It is no murder, that pale wretch has wrought,
It is no murder; – for his hands have used
No outward force, and mix’d no deadly drug,
For her, who breathes not, tho’ his startled gaze
Seems bending still in agony, to seek
One other look, one sign that still she lives, –
His Daughter. ‘Twas no murderer, that hung
Sad o’er her couch, and watch’d her sleepless brow;
Still first to bend her pillow, – still the first,
Ere the unspoken wish was on her lip,
To bear the quick refreshment. – And that eye
So gentle, that kind eye, which, ev’n when sad,
Seem’d but the softness of a heart long wont
To pity all who grieve, – that tender glance,
Which bless’d him as it faded into death,
Ev’n then more tender, – was no look that meets
The ruffian, when his victim sinks below.
by Thomas Brown
If you enjoyed this post, murder poems, then you will also enjoy assassin poem.