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“The Seance” 

It was macabre you see,
we were all summoned,
and therefore found ourselves
in the front parlour of Ballylee;

In our dreams
we thought we were poets
of fabulous notoreity, 
the head ghoul set us straight on that.

The planchette was placed just so
below all underlings’ fingers gathered lightly sat,
while only one was given the Master’s pen
and through automatic powers She transgressed;

Seances are forced passages of lamentable rites,
where demons from the past are conjured woefully back 
drawn to take aim at their opposites, 
their most loath’ed burdensome plights,

akin to taking 
medicinal libations 
swilling like midnight boars 
in undelight

in viewing this scene as from eyes of moth 
fluttering with death around a flame,
the great minds of worshipped laureates 
are thus imprinted on the tongues of lost dark silent nights

who hold hands like faded missionaries, 

without true purpose the undirected jest
circled and whispering nothings 
invoking courage, well, they try their best,
their tepid vibrations slithering poetic slights

their voices hushed spitting meek they are the less,
chanting like lowly black monks moaning
their uninvested hands in hirsute pockets drunk 
fondling their hidden pens, short swords more or less,

channelling their lesser demons
through their cloistered words like hoes of Usher
attempting to exorcise the incessant static noise
they swat at the invisible ghosts of others

strange haunting music in their minds
implanted ectoplasms of madness dancing
spectrals and demons speak such strange language
unsensical, the passage through, the inner turmoil;

the tapping begins and then the tipping of tables
heard through the mouths of those possessed
reading imprinted interdimensional messages 
milky-eyed blind their brains like cataracts

do touch 
something Other, 
the writing on spectral walls 
like chapters in a book indexed

their fingers tracing braille 
accompanied by frosty succubus on their breath
they think they are the fables, yet the higher table tips
the unseen blows the candles out, each one

by one
by one 
by one
like broken glitch

immeasurable messages from the dead 
are passed over like this 
at the end of It all, unjust crucifixion 
remains the unblessed

Yeats pats his automatic on the back 
a soft massage for sensual reasoning,
it reassures His miss understood 
His bless’ed burning daemon

up and down Her spine
such chills, such great relief
upon his prompting, 
She opens Her mouth

and begins 
the terrible blood curdling 
She bleeds Her All Souls in 
She lets them all come out

the door swings open unannounced
to those seated the terror breezes
across their eyes across their mouths
such great consternation all about

a most horrible atmosphere 
of one must fast get out -
too late, the door now open
all the demons are running gleefully about -

“an exit or an entry?”, 
guests still present shout,
shuddering besides themselves,
"what is this daft charade all about?"

those shuffling 
their tarot cards 
blandly tout,
“which haunting next?”

all the good ghouls 
hang about 



Candide Diderot. ‘25 


 
“Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; 
Mere Anarchy is loosed upon the world, 
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.”


“For certain minutes at the least
That crafty demon and that loud beast
That plague me day and night
Ran out of my sight;
Though I had long perned in the gyre,
Between my hatred and desire.
I saw my freedom won …”


“Two thoughts were so mixed up I could not tell
Whether of Her or God he thought the most, 
But think that his mind’s eye,
When upward turned, on one sole image fell;
And that a slight companionable ghost, 
Wild with divinity, 
Had so lit up the whole 
Immense miraculous house.”
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