Happy Halloween! Here's the Poem I'd forgotten

And in the Light of Day

I wandered in an unknown wood,
drank deep the scents of earth.
Intoxicating touch of green;
a bed of fairies' worth.

Resting on the mossbound path
I fell into a dream,
and there within my vision came
a path along a stream.

And brushing past the tangles,
there between the trees,
I sensed a darker entrance
uncovered by the breeze.

Cut into the aged stone
wide steps led on and down;
past the point of seeing light
they vanished in the ground.

Hesitant was I to see,
yet compulsion drew me near,
and soon the very wondering
dispelled the vaguest fear.

Striking match to light the step
I started on my way,
and there below encrusted earth:
a torch in lieu of day!

Not seeming as an aged thing
I gave myself a pause.
Was I to be expected guest?
I wondered at the cause.

This was but brief: how could that be?
(and still the quest did call:
"Here is a flame to light the path")
and so I left it all.

Ancient walls of dewy stone
imprisoned my descent
and wrought the question in my mind
of whence they came and went.

Just ahead I saw a glow
and headed for the place,
and came upon a wide threshhold
carved with a spectre face.

I crossed this sculpted threshold
to a world so dank and cold;
a vault of endless ages held
the somber dead of old.

And there adorned these crumbling walls
the smoothest plaques of stone...
granite, marble, cut with care
for those whom time does own.

Torchlight flickered slowly
casting shadows on the wall;
moisture trickled upon rock
and mimicked whispered call.

The heart within my breast did leap
and echoed with each pound.
Within my fear my ears did hear
a multitude of sound.

Who knows what creature wanders
with muffled steps to hide?
Deep within this catacomb
what terror walks inside?

Yet there's the water seeping
through a crack along the wall...
It's nerves; imagination
in the presence of this hall.

I gathered courage closely,
and wrapped it like a veil,
to still the hurried beat of heart
and some small comfort hail.

Down the rows of polished stone
I glimpsed a wary sight:
a plaque was rendered loose with time
(or pried off in the night!)

Set inside that tome of stone
(there I dared not see...)
what hint of death? what spoiling cloth?
encasing what must be.

And drifting through the chamber
an ill wind touched my face.
Chilling breath as cold as death
alive within this place.

That foul breath sent me ahead,
afraid that I might see
what creature now appeared to tread
entombed below with me.

Curving walls of silver stone
were revealed by the flame.
Passages led far ahead
and all appeared the same.

Seeking comfort and escape
I longed for light of day,
but as I turned to find the path
it hid itself away.

Shadows on the cavern walls
reached for sweet embrace
as reason all but left me
lighting terror on my face.

And here there was no comfort;
no courage left to find.
Lost below the mother earth
I feared I'd lose my mind.

Then from within the ancient hall
there came a sudden sound
as of a chisel striking rock
far beneath the ground.

Images of masons
floated through my brain
as the ever-present tapping
played its cold refrain.

I moved as if in liquid,
running in a dream,
and I knew I would be free
if I could only scream.

The sound shattered the cavern
and brought a golden light.
There upon the mossbound path
the sun was shining bright.

Blinking through the warming glow
I viewed the silent trees.
The final touch of darkness
fled before the breeze.

But as I sighed in deep relief
ahead my gaze beheld
a trail that ran along a stream:
a path that I knew well.

It was as in my vision,
and in the light of day
I shuddered at the glimpse of stone
and turned myself away.

Yet somewhere from the blackness
a chilling cry did mock,
and still I hear the chisel
as it cuts my name in rock.

Jill McQuown, 1979
copr. 1981

"jmcquown" wrote in message
...
And in the Light of Day

I wandered in an unknown wood,
drank deep the scents of earth.
Intoxicating touch of green;
a bed of fairies' worth.

Resting on the mossbound path
I fell into a dream,
and there within my vision came
a path along a stream.

And brushing past the tangles,
there between the trees,
I sensed a darker entrance
uncovered by the breeze.

Cut into the aged stone
wide steps led on and down;
past the point of seeing light
they vanished in the ground.

Hesitant was I to see,
yet compulsion drew me near,
and soon the very wondering
dispelled the vaguest fear.

Striking match to light the step
I started on my way,
and there below encrusted earth:
a torch in lieu of day!

Not seeming as an aged thing
I gave myself a pause.
Was I to be expected guest?
I wondered at the cause.

This was but brief: how could that be?
(and still the quest did call:
"Here is a flame to light the path")
and so I left it all.

Ancient walls of dewy stone
imprisoned my descent
and wrought the question in my mind
of whence they came and went.

Just ahead I saw a glow
and headed for the place,
and came upon a wide threshhold
carved with a spectre face.

I crossed this sculpted threshold
to a world so dank and cold;
a vault of endless ages held
the somber dead of old.

And there adorned these crumbling walls
the smoothest plaques of stone...
granite, marble, cut with care
for those whom time does own.

Torchlight flickered slowly
casting shadows on the wall;
moisture trickled upon rock
and mimicked whispered call.

The heart within my breast did leap
and echoed with each pound.
Within my fear my ears did hear
a multitude of sound.

Who knows what creature wanders
with muffled steps to hide?
Deep within this catacomb
what terror walks inside?

Yet there's the water seeping
through a crack along the wall...
It's nerves; imagination
in the presence of this hall.

I gathered courage closely,
and wrapped it like a veil,
to still the hurried beat of heart
and some small comfort hail.

Down the rows of polished stone
I glimpsed a wary sight:
a plaque was rendered loose with time
(or pried off in the night!)

Set inside that tome of stone
(there I dared not see...)
what hint of death? what spoiling cloth?
encasing what must be.

And drifting through the chamber
an ill wind touched my face.
Chilling breath as cold as death
alive within this place.

That foul breath sent me ahead,
afraid that I might see
what creature now appeared to tread
entombed below with me.

Curving walls of silver stone
were revealed by the flame.
Passages led far ahead
and all appeared the same.

Seeking comfort and escape
I longed for light of day,
but as I turned to find the path
it hid itself away.

Shadows on the cavern walls
reached for sweet embrace
as reason all but left me
lighting terror on my face.

And here there was no comfort;
no courage left to find.
Lost below the mother earth
I feared I'd lose my mind.

Then from within the ancient hall
there came a sudden sound
as of a chisel striking rock
far beneath the ground.

Images of masons
floated through my brain
as the ever-present tapping
played its cold refrain.

I moved as if in liquid,
running in a dream,
and I knew I would be free
if I could only scream.

The sound shattered the cavern
and brought a golden light.
There upon the mossbound path
the sun was shining bright.

Blinking through the warming glow
I viewed the silent trees.
The final touch of darkness
fled before the breeze.

But as I sighed in deep relief
ahead my gaze beheld
a trail that ran along a stream:
a path that I knew well.

It was as in my vision,
and in the light of day
I shuddered at the glimpse of stone
and turned myself away.

Yet somewhere from the blackness
a chilling cry did mock,
and still I hear the chisel
as it cuts my name in rock.

Jill McQuown, 1979
copr. 1981

I didn't want to snip it - it's fabulous. You are very talented.
l'm sure you could get that published.
I had two poems published once, years ago, in a magazine called The
Countryman. I didn't send them myself, a friend did without telling me ;-)
They paid me a small amount, but the money was not the point. I got two
appreciative letters forwarded to me too from the magazine - my first ever
fan mail!

I love your poem.

Tweed

"Christina Websell" wrote in message
...


"jmcquown" wrote in message
...
And in the Light of Day

I wandered in an unknown wood,
drank deep the scents of earth.
Intoxicating touch of green;
a bed of fairies' worth.

Resting on the mossbound path
I fell into a dream,
and there within my vision came
a path along a stream.

And brushing past the tangles,
there between the trees,
I sensed a darker entrance
uncovered by the breeze.

Cut into the aged stone
wide steps led on and down;
past the point of seeing light
they vanished in the ground.

Hesitant was I to see,
yet compulsion drew me near,
and soon the very wondering
dispelled the vaguest fear.

Striking match to light the step
I started on my way,
and there below encrusted earth:
a torch in lieu of day!

Not seeming as an aged thing
I gave myself a pause.
Was I to be expected guest?
I wondered at the cause.

This was but brief: how could that be?
(and still the quest did call:
"Here is a flame to light the path")
and so I left it all.

Ancient walls of dewy stone
imprisoned my descent
and wrought the question in my mind
of whence they came and went.

Just ahead I saw a glow
and headed for the place,
and came upon a wide threshhold
carved with a spectre face.

I crossed this sculpted threshold
to a world so dank and cold;
a vault of endless ages held
the somber dead of old.

And there adorned these crumbling walls
the smoothest plaques of stone...
granite, marble, cut with care
for those whom time does own.

Torchlight flickered slowly
casting shadows on the wall;
moisture trickled upon rock
and mimicked whispered call.

The heart within my breast did leap
and echoed with each pound.
Within my fear my ears did hear
a multitude of sound.

Who knows what creature wanders
with muffled steps to hide?
Deep within this catacomb
what terror walks inside?

Yet there's the water seeping
through a crack along the wall...
It's nerves; imagination
in the presence of this hall.

I gathered courage closely,
and wrapped it like a veil,
to still the hurried beat of heart
and some small comfort hail.

Down the rows of polished stone
I glimpsed a wary sight:
a plaque was rendered loose with time
(or pried off in the night!)

Set inside that tome of stone
(there I dared not see...)
what hint of death? what spoiling cloth?
encasing what must be.

And drifting through the chamber
an ill wind touched my face.
Chilling breath as cold as death
alive within this place.

That foul breath sent me ahead,
afraid that I might see
what creature now appeared to tread
entombed below with me.

Curving walls of silver stone
were revealed by the flame.
Passages led far ahead
and all appeared the same.

Seeking comfort and escape
I longed for light of day,
but as I turned to find the path
it hid itself away.

Shadows on the cavern walls
reached for sweet embrace
as reason all but left me
lighting terror on my face.

And here there was no comfort;
no courage left to find.
Lost below the mother earth
I feared I'd lose my mind.

Then from within the ancient hall
there came a sudden sound
as of a chisel striking rock
far beneath the ground.

Images of masons
floated through my brain
as the ever-present tapping
played its cold refrain.

I moved as if in liquid,
running in a dream,
and I knew I would be free
if I could only scream.

The sound shattered the cavern
and brought a golden light.
There upon the mossbound path
the sun was shining bright.

Blinking through the warming glow
I viewed the silent trees.
The final touch of darkness
fled before the breeze.

But as I sighed in deep relief
ahead my gaze beheld
a trail that ran along a stream:
a path that I knew well.

It was as in my vision,
and in the light of day
I shuddered at the glimpse of stone
and turned myself away.

Yet somewhere from the blackness
a chilling cry did mock,
and still I hear the chisel
as it cuts my name in rock.

Jill McQuown, 1979
copr. 1981

I didn't want to snip it - it's fabulous. You are very talented.
l'm sure you could get that published.
I had two poems published once, years ago, in a magazine called The
Countryman. I didn't send them myself, a friend did without telling me ;-)
They paid me a small amount, but the money was not the point. I got two
appreciative letters forwarded to me too from the magazine - my first ever
fan mail!

I love your poem.

Tweed


Thank you very much! Not to toot my own horn, but that's the best work I
ever did. Especially since I was only 19 when I wrote it. (I haven't been
able to compose anything since I was about age 22.)

When I was still in school my English Lit teacher wanted me to do some
poetry readings at a writers group he met with. I begged off. The very
thought of reading my work aloud in front of people was terrifying. I
didn't care about being published, but it is copyrighted with the U.S.
Library of Congress

Jill

jmcquown wrote:

"Christina Websell" wrote in message
...


"jmcquown" wrote in message
...
And in the Light of Day

I wandered in an unknown wood,
drank deep the scents of earth.
Intoxicating touch of green;
a bed of fairies' worth.

Resting on the mossbound path
I fell into a dream,
and there within my vision came
a path along a stream.

And brushing past the tangles,
there between the trees,
I sensed a darker entrance
uncovered by the breeze.

Cut into the aged stone
wide steps led on and down;
past the point of seeing light
they vanished in the ground.

Hesitant was I to see,
yet compulsion drew me near,
and soon the very wondering
dispelled the vaguest fear.

Striking match to light the step
I started on my way,
and there below encrusted earth:
a torch in lieu of day!

Not seeming as an aged thing
I gave myself a pause.
Was I to be expected guest?
I wondered at the cause.

This was but brief: how could that be?
(and still the quest did call:
"Here is a flame to light the path")
and so I left it all.

Ancient walls of dewy stone
imprisoned my descent
and wrought the question in my mind
of whence they came and went.

Just ahead I saw a glow
and headed for the place,
and came upon a wide threshhold
carved with a spectre face.

I crossed this sculpted threshold
to a world so dank and cold;
a vault of endless ages held
the somber dead of old.

And there adorned these crumbling walls
the smoothest plaques of stone...
granite, marble, cut with care
for those whom time does own.

Torchlight flickered slowly
casting shadows on the wall;
moisture trickled upon rock
and mimicked whispered call.

The heart within my breast did leap
and echoed with each pound.
Within my fear my ears did hear
a multitude of sound.

Who knows what creature wanders
with muffled steps to hide?
Deep within this catacomb
what terror walks inside?

Yet there's the water seeping
through a crack along the wall...
It's nerves; imagination
in the presence of this hall.

I gathered courage closely,
and wrapped it like a veil,
to still the hurried beat of heart
and some small comfort hail.

Down the rows of polished stone
I glimpsed a wary sight:
a plaque was rendered loose with time
(or pried off in the night!)

Set inside that tome of stone
(there I dared not see...)
what hint of death? what spoiling cloth?
encasing what must be.

And drifting through the chamber
an ill wind touched my face.
Chilling breath as cold as death
alive within this place.

That foul breath sent me ahead,
afraid that I might see
what creature now appeared to tread
entombed below with me.

Curving walls of silver stone
were revealed by the flame.
Passages led far ahead
and all appeared the same.

Seeking comfort and escape
I longed for light of day,
but as I turned to find the path
it hid itself away.

Shadows on the cavern walls
reached for sweet embrace
as reason all but left me
lighting terror on my face.

And here there was no comfort;
no courage left to find.
Lost below the mother earth
I feared I'd lose my mind.

Then from within the ancient hall
there came a sudden sound
as of a chisel striking rock
far beneath the ground.

Images of masons
floated through my brain
as the ever-present tapping
played its cold refrain.

I moved as if in liquid,
running in a dream,
and I knew I would be free
if I could only scream.

The sound shattered the cavern
and brought a golden light.
There upon the mossbound path
the sun was shining bright.

Blinking through the warming glow
I viewed the silent trees.
The final touch of darkness
fled before the breeze.

But as I sighed in deep relief
ahead my gaze beheld
a trail that ran along a stream:
a path that I knew well.

It was as in my vision,
and in the light of day
I shuddered at the glimpse of stone
and turned myself away.

Yet somewhere from the blackness
a chilling cry did mock,
and still I hear the chisel
as it cuts my name in rock.

Jill McQuown, 1979
copr. 1981

I didn't want to snip it - it's fabulous. You are very talented.
l'm sure you could get that published.
I had two poems published once, years ago, in a magazine called The
Countryman. I didn't send them myself, a friend did without telling me ;-)
They paid me a small amount, but the money was not the point. I got two
appreciative letters forwarded to me too from the magazine - my first ever
fan mail!

I love your poem.


Thank you very much! Not to toot my own horn, but that's the best work I
ever did. Especially since I was only 19 when I wrote it. (I haven't been
able to compose anything since I was about age 22.)

When I was still in school my English Lit teacher wanted me to do some
poetry readings at a writers group he met with. I begged off. The very
thought of reading my work aloud in front of people was terrifying. I
didn't care about being published, but it is copyrighted with the U.S.
Library of Congress

Smart thinking. Just make sure to keep it updated. Most copyrights are
limited, time-wise.

The songwriter in my wants to set this to music. But like you, I haven't
been able to come up with the kind of melodies I wrote in the 70s and 80s.
When I try to write something now, I *hate* the medodies I come up with.
Very frustrating. I don't know what happened to change it, but since a
similar thing happened to you, maybe that's how creative abilities work
sometimes.

Very gothic poem, btw!

--
Joyce

- Mommy loves you too my sweaty litter baby fire
- Ummm what mom?
- MY SWEET LITTLE BABY GIRL!! sorry honey!
-- damnyouautocorrect.com

"Bastette" wrote in message ...

jmcquown wrote:

"Christina Websell" wrote in message
...


"jmcquown" wrote in message
...
And in the Light of Day

Yet somewhere from the blackness
a chilling cry did mock,
and still I hear the chisel
as it cuts my name in rock.

Jill McQuown, 1979
copr. 1981

I didn't want to snip it - it's fabulous. You are very talented.
l'm sure you could get that published.
I had two poems published once, years ago, in a magazine called The
Countryman. I didn't send them myself, a friend did without telling me
;-)
They paid me a small amount, but the money was not the point. I got two
appreciative letters forwarded to me too from the magazine - my first ever
fan mail!

I love your poem.


Thank you very much! Not to toot my own horn, but that's the best work I
ever did. Especially since I was only 19 when I wrote it. (I haven't
been
able to compose anything since I was about age 22.)

When I was still in school my English Lit teacher wanted me to do some
poetry readings at a writers group he met with. I begged off. The very
thought of reading my work aloud in front of people was terrifying. I
didn't care about being published, but it is copyrighted with the U.S.
Library of Congress

Smart thinking. Just make sure to keep it updated. Most copyrights are
limited, time-wise.

The songwriter in my wants to set this to music. But like you, I haven't
been able to come up with the kind of melodies I wrote in the 70s and 80s.
When I try to write something now, I *hate* the medodies I come up with.
Very frustrating. I don't know what happened to change it, but since a
similar thing happened to you, maybe that's how creative abilities work
sometimes.

Very gothic poem, btw!

--
Joyce


G It makes me think of Coleridge's 'The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner'. I
wrote this poem after having a particularly vivid nightmare. I started
writing and the words just fell into place.

I don't know why I lost the knack for writing verse. As a teen I was quite
prolific! I used to be able to sit down at a piano and play, too. (Never
had a lesson, can't read music.) I can't do that anymore, either. On one
of our art show trips John brought along his electronic keyboard. He
remembered I used to play the piano for him. Sorry, my love, I just can't
play anymore. I can hear the music in my head but it doesn't translate to
my fingers on a keyboard. Strange, isn't it?

Jill

"jmcquown" wrote in message
...
"Bastette" wrote in message ...

jmcquown wrote:

"Christina Websell" wrote in message
...


"jmcquown" wrote in message
...
And in the Light of Day

Yet somewhere from the blackness
a chilling cry did mock,
and still I hear the chisel
as it cuts my name in rock.

Jill McQuown, 1979
copr. 1981

I didn't want to snip it - it's fabulous. You are very talented.
l'm sure you could get that published.
I had two poems published once, years ago, in a magazine called The
Countryman. I didn't send them myself, a friend did without telling me
;-)
They paid me a small amount, but the money was not the point. I got two
appreciative letters forwarded to me too from the magazine - my first
ever
fan mail!

I love your poem.


Thank you very much! Not to toot my own horn, but that's the best work I
ever did. Especially since I was only 19 when I wrote it. (I haven't
been
able to compose anything since I was about age 22.)

When I was still in school my English Lit teacher wanted me to do some
poetry readings at a writers group he met with. I begged off. The very
thought of reading my work aloud in front of people was terrifying. I
didn't care about being published, but it is copyrighted with the U.S.
Library of Congress

Smart thinking. Just make sure to keep it updated. Most copyrights are
limited, time-wise.

The songwriter in my wants to set this to music. But like you, I haven't
been able to come up with the kind of melodies I wrote in the 70s and 80s.
When I try to write something now, I *hate* the medodies I come up with.
Very frustrating. I don't know what happened to change it, but since a
similar thing happened to you, maybe that's how creative abilities work
sometimes.

Very gothic poem, btw!

--
Joyce


G It makes me think of Coleridge's 'The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner'.
I wrote this poem after having a particularly vivid nightmare. I started
writing and the words just fell into place.

I don't know why I lost the knack for writing verse. As a teen I was
quite prolific! I used to be able to sit down at a piano and play, too.
(Never had a lesson, can't read music.) I can't do that anymore, either.
On one of our art show trips John brought along his electronic keyboard.
He remembered I used to play the piano for him. Sorry, my love, I just
can't play anymore. I can hear the music in my head but it doesn't
translate to my fingers on a keyboard. Strange, isn't it?

Jill

Maybe we can only do it for a short time. I cannot write poems any more
either.