Vampire Poetry

Much to my surprise, there is a lot of vampire poetry out there.

A lot.

From the many, many poems I have vaguely skimmed over in recent days I’ve chosen one to share—for two reasons. 1) Because it’s short and so many of them are not, and 2) Because I suspect it’s copyright-free based on, you know, being published hundreds of years ago.

Written by Rudyard Kipling in 1897, this is The Vampire.

A fool there was and he made his prayer
(Even as you or I!)
To a rag and a bone and a hank of hair,
(We called her the woman who did not care),
But the fool he called her his lady fair—
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the years we waste and the tears we waste,
And the work of our head and hand
Belong to the woman who did not know
(And now we know that she never could know)
And did not understand!

A fool there was and his goods he spent,
(Even as you or I!)
Honour and faith and a sure intent
(And it wasn’t the least what the lady meant),
But a fool must follow his natural bent
(Even as you or I!)

Oh, the toil we lost and the spoil we lost
And the excellent things we planned
Belong to the woman who didn’t know why
(And now we know that she never knew why)
And did not understand!

The fool was stripped to his foolish hide,
(Even as you or I!)
Which she might have seen when she threw him aside—
(But it isn’t on record the lady tried)
So some of him lived but the most of him died—
(Even as you or I!)

“And it isn’t the shame and it isn’t the blame
That stings like a white-hot brand—
It’s coming to know that she never knew why
(Seeing, at last, she could never know why)
And never could understand!”

OK I’m going to be honest, I’m not really sure what just happened up there.

However, this website tells me it’s about a gold digging vampire lady.

Well, I’m sure it is. I just really enjoyed all the brackets and punctuation. It was a bit of fun.

Actually, I’m horrible with poetry. It’s like conceptual art…I just don’t “get” it. Or, actually I guess I mean it’s difficult for me to think in that space. What is that, right brain or something?

I don’t know. Lots of times I wonder why I can seem to write so much but I can’t grasp certain elements of the craft like fiction.

Maybe I’m just afraid of it.

Yes, that’s it. I’m afraid of poetry. And conceptual art. And fiction.


The Death of Christmas

Here is a project I created for a photography course a few years ago. It was stored on my mom’s hard drive, which crashed a year or so ago and we’ve only recently rescued the files on said hard drive.

Isn’t that nice.

The Death of Christmas

“Christmas is coming!”
It’s thick in the air.
Dancing snow, falling
And landing with care.

Lights put up with speed,
Thrown up in great haste.
It says “He is coming!
“No moment to waste!”

Downtown we all rush,
With lists in our hand
To try to buy presents
And not spend a grand

The parade met us there,
With elves and the like,
A zebra, a truck,
And a man on a bike.

Bewildered, confused,
I leave the parade,
My head is cast down,
My heart is dismayed.

“What happened to Christmas?”
I say with a sneer.
“What happened to ‘Peace,’
‘Glad Tidings,’ ‘Good Cheer?'”

A man heard my grown
And took up my hand,
Showed me a manger,
A Nativity stand.

“Here is the Answer,”
He said with a grin.
“This is true Christmas,
“Forgiveness of sin.”

With that he left me,
To ponder his words.
The feelings I had
Were sad and disturbed.

I looked up from the scene
And saw Santa’s Bed,
With him still in it,
Just resting his head.

All that had happened
Now made me confused,
If Santa is sleeping,
Who’ll bring the good news?

“Merry Christmas to all,
“To all a good night?”
Who’ll give out the gifts;
Make everything right?

“What is this Christmas?”
I ask with some fear.
“What is this Christmas,
“Without gifts and good cheer?”

The thing in my mind,
The thought in my head,
All I could think of:
Christmas was dead.

Christmas isn’t dead. I was just really cynical after seeing a weird parade. Merry Christmas.

Just another example of how I spent my summer in Northern Saskatchewan

This is Keith. He is, hands down, my favourite Norwegian bush pilot.

He was my favourite even before he told me he wrote poetry.

And even before he gave me a private reading of one of his poems.

Because he is so much more than a man with amazing chops and a legendary day job, I’ve decided to publish the poem he read to me not much over a month ago, in front of his teeny cabin complete with an airplane and a dump truck in the yard.

It’s called Lutefisk.


It was two days before Christmas I got in my car

And drove really fast ’cause I come from afar.

A north wind was blowing and plenty of snow,

The temperature down below thirty below.

I had one thing in mind and a craving so great,
I had to get to the store before it’s too late.
The road was a mess and I sure took a risk

But nothing else matters, I need Lutefisk.

I get to the Safeway I’m sure there’s some there.

I hurried right in, but the fish shelf was bare.

I’m so disappointed, now what will I do?

Without Lutefisk it’s a Christmas of blue.

I even think of starting a Norwegian uprising.

With no Lutefisk, this should not be surprising.

I went back again and to my surprise,
Hidden under some shrimp, oh what a disguise,

I could smell the aroma of cod soaked in lye.

I was so overcome that I started to cry.

A wee bit of drool dribbled down from my chin

And it’s Joy to the World, merry Christmas again.

If you’re not getting into this poem, just read it again with a picture of me, standing in the freezing cold, listening to a poem about stinky poisonous fish, which was written in all seriousness by a redneck bush pilot and tell me it’s not the best thing that’s ever happened to you.

Do it.