Gothic literature website – ‘Gothic Poets and Writers Literary Club’ is a place where Gothic and dark poets and writers can post their works and discuss them. We are eager to collect as much as possible gothic poems and gothic stories, dark poetry and dark prose. The website is totally free and aimed to consolidation of European, Asian and American Gothic and dark poets and writers.
Gothic style is a sort of fusion of horror and romance (it is well-seen in both gothic poems and stories). The first gothic novel is ‘The Castle of Otranto’ (1764) by Horace Walpole who was an English Gothic writer. Later gothic literary tradition spread all over the Europe and arrived in the USA. The most famous American gothic literature author is Edgar Allan Poe who is a cult person for every goth today.
Asian Gothic literature is separate phenomenon that has it’s origin in Eastern folk dark poetry and prose and philosophy traditions and formed as unique wonder of our civilization thanks to taking into account Gothic literary genre development in Europe and American gothic literature special features experience.
Point characteristics of Gothic fiction, gothic poems, dark poetry and prose are terrible psychological and physical terror, mystery, paranormal activity, spirits, ghosts, haunted and abandoned houses and samples of the best traditions of Gothic architecture, medieval castles, dark, death, decay, madness, macabre secrets and hereditary curses.
The main gothic literature characters are typically tyrants, peasants, rogues, maniacs, Byronic heroes, persecuted lasses, femmes fatales, madmen, sorcerers, blood suckers, werewolves, monsters, devils, revenants, spirits, ghosts, living skeletons, the Wandering Jew and Satan himself.
If you are a Gothic poet or writer don’t miss the chance! Join us and make yourself at home!
She danced on with passion, with joyous heath,
Across the altars, with blooded feet.
Her scarlet stains to sacred taint,
Defying the temple, with shine of faint,
Crying yet laughing at fallen saint,
His crosses dear in sinful black paint.
She cast crimson hail storm, shimmering array,
Beneath domes of shadows, of halos that betray,
Her soul screamed at icons, but all in vain,
Their eyes brightened, but of darkness plain,
Pressed under torment evolved from her pain,
Unheard by puppets, beings far from sane.
All with depth conceives,
That Inner side of the world,
Magnet that repels the Sun’s gold.
No later but in this life,
Depth has crafted our souls for itself.
We are deep beings, we hide from strife,
Beneath the skin, beneath the masks, beneath,
The words we have told to enrich life,
Or left silent, to with sorrow seethe,
Language is water behind a great dam gathered,
I daily within it dive,
And when air is thinner, I, even more shattered,
Leave to where I already did thrive.
If the Earth is shaken, that truly,
Am I, dreaming in an abyss,
Where my silent desperation’s bliss ,
I’ve hidden away from all, fully.
Within the depths is my domain,
Where through tongues is only felt pain,
My domain is within the depths, where
The pain is felt only through tongues.
From that darkened dictionary’s rift,
I only feel the warmth’s drift,
Of your gaze that to words shift.
… Midnight comes.
In darkened veil there are no goddesses,
Sacred are free souls combating the menaces,
That silent hour, that darkest time,
But what news, what rhyme?
By blackened wing of voiceless twilight,
Like single giant wave’s sheer might,
Rolling across the sea’s vivid face,
Howling as If perishing without a trace,
Or from the Earth’s bowels race.
Perhaps soil’s spirits chanted?
Or it damned fruits that were granted?
Or skies, perhaps, onward veer,
My deepest curses not to hear,
And stars weep, heavens grieve,
Caressing the earth once more before leave.
Should world be left without the skies soothing?
Should earth be forsaken by dawn brooding?
Should it be solely…
And footsteps are heard slowly…
Is midnight so silently traveling?
Not even air was so calmly unraveling,
The mystery from another world appearing.
Were clouds in secret upwards steering?
Or ailing creatures sorely breathing?
Or angels heavenly cure bleeding?
Or sharp scythe mowing brought?
Is it that love falls?... Is malice for naught?...
Perhaps it stalks so that It claims,
This too cup of joyous names?
Yet, perhaps, tear for sorrow sheds,
So that sadness above us spreads?
Or is ground returning ancient deceased?
The door screeched…
The Beast Inside My Mind
I went deep inside to find the mysterious door,
I opened it only to regret
what I found inside,
what I released afterwards.
The louder the creaking,
the closer I feel its breathing,
a fear up through my spine,
the beast inside my mind.
My sky gets lightless
and I only stay in silence,
as I watch my creature taking control,
making me start and endless war...
Here's a chapter of my latest novel. I usually do this by adding a link to a different site (Short Fiction UK) but on this occasion I've decided to upload the complete chapter. It's not currently available on any other site, although the full novel is available on Amazon (Kindle).
The Gilded Vampire (Chapter 4)
By the time Zoë had finished her phone call the noise outside had dwindled to normal levels and instead of blaring sirens and revving engines I could hear birds singing and the soft babble of the television anchorman, who had lowered the tone of his voice in the way they do when they’re delivering sad or tragic news. The T.V suddenly switched to a live broadcast from the scene of the crime, and a rather flustered-looking reporter stared straight down the lens of the camera, glancing periodically at a notepad in her hand as she delivered the shocking news. It was weird seeing it all on the screen; the local church I never attended; the graveyard I was so familiar with; the local vicar, standing in the background with a shocked expression, hugging a large bible like a frightened child would cuddle a teddy bear. I knew exactly how he felt. I was still in a state of nervous tension about everything, and the location of the forensic investigators’ white tent was yet another shock. The site that the Gilded Vampire had chosen to leave the corpse of his latest victim was the site of my wife’s grave.
THE EXECUTIONER - MADISON RAMSAY
Death makes us all tread on an endless sheet of fragile ice. He watches, anticipation twisting His face, waiting for us to fall through the holes in the ice. Threading a thin fabric beneath our feet.
He does His job with gentle and tender hands; cutting of heartbeats, ending breath. Yet it saddens Death when He has to work alone, gathering souls like lifeless spiders into his numb embrace.
Which is why He chose a friend.
The Executioner's steps splinter upon the scaffold, the wood rotting away behind him.
He runs the rope through his hands habitually, and it scratches over his parched skin; the rasping breathing of Death Himself.
The Sentenced's backs are turned to the Executioner, not wanting to mar their last moments with the man tightening ropes around their necks.
Death is waiting, his cold fingers caressing their flesh.
He enjoys the warmth of the skin, relishes how it will never feel that way again. Death smiles as the frantic beating of their hearts drown out their last pathetic prayers.
"Cowards," He spits venomously. ''Every last one -a COWARD.''
Death fails to notice the sky today.
Today the sky is a different kind of blinding. It bleeds with hollowness, yet sings with every possible colour as the Executioner pulls on his mask.
With the world engulfed in familiar black, he wonders if the mask could muffle the screams. He dislikes how the screaming tears open the painted skies, ripping through his mind.
"No," he thinks. "They die FAR too quickly for any of that.''
Today everything is different.
Today the Executioner doesn't step back from the Sentenced.
Today it isn't his hands - that are calloused with stale slaughter - that pull the lever down. It isn't him that is to end the lives hanging from the nooses.
Today the Executioner dangles among them.
"Do you fear me?'' Death fastens the rope around his friend's neck.
A real nightmare
As I stare to the skyline,
as I look to my road,
to the silvery clouds,
to that hideous storm
"I must go through",
think as I open my eyes,
solely hoping to sleep
not dreaming anymore.
Thank Gog and Magog, I've finally finished my second novel. Entitled The Gilded Vampire, the book concerns a devillish, cruel and intelligent vampire who has escaped from the golden sarcophagus which has kept him in check for so many years.
Billy, Zoe, and the other three members of the League Of Light are the only people who realise that 'The Northampton Ripper' is really a vicious vampire and not a human serial killer.
As they hunt for the vampire, the LOL begin to realise the sort of creature they up against and things go from bad to worse in very short order. When Billy realises that he has compromised the entire operation, he becomes suicidal in his abject grief.
Perhaps Zoe can save Billy from the vampire and from himself, but it seems like a tall order even for a brilliant girl like her.
Here's a link to the Amazon page:
A tempest I call
All alone, inside my mind, just lying (trying to reorganize);
in a moment when a feeling
fills my soul and my mind with longing.
Yet there is something more
that cannot be explained,
after that it only comes
a hatred for that sensation
of despair and disinterest
it's Melancholy what I have gained.
Nostalgia, because I miss her,
not watching her face nor hearing her voice
and ends up filling me Monotony with its noise,
but it's because of mankind's nature
that I shall be forgiven
for the storm that I've brought.
But it's my second thought, the next feeling that comes
That seeks me only to destroy.
But why do I torture myself without a reason?
Is it part of the masochistic human nature?
Is it just for the wish to feel?
Even if suffering it's the only thing it means?
Oh! Why? And that is something I cannot forgive,
Oh! Why do you exist on me?
Why Melancholy do you exist on me?!
And even if senseless rage against you,
makes me want to lose serenity and control,
I must remember that thought,
that filled me with longing,
the first emotion I felt,
longing for her,
and the hope that she brings with her
hope that wraps me and warms me
until I fall asleep, to dream of her,
the only glow inside the murky mess
that I call my mind.