My Poem: The Red Chamber Rubaiyat: Gen
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stonepicnicking_okapiTitle: The Red Chamber Rubaiyat
Fandom: "The Red Chamber" by Edogawa Rampo [a short story available in English translation here]
Poetic Form: rubaiyat
Notes: a summary of the short story and is SPOILERS for that work
Summary: A small literary club where members meet to share horror stories accepts a new member. He has an interesting story to tell.
Length: 450
Rating: Gen
An assembly of seven men,
they gather in a scarlet den,
a like-minded society,
devoted to the horror pen.
With solemn propriety,
and glee in fright, anxiety,
the men convene to share fraught tales,
dread, spice of their variety.
The seven sit in silent veils,
their faces much like coffin-nails,
until the new one clears his throat
and knits his yarn of darks and pales.
‘Abhorring all that’s norm and rote,
I found that boredom’s antidote,
for me, was murder, indirect,
at which I shine, if I may gloat.’
‘Of death, I’ve been the architect
in ninety-nine events, suspect
in not a one, no, in not one,
my record clean, in that respect.’
‘Sheer accident, though truth may stun,
wrong directions, rescue undone,
to shoddy care I sent the hurt,
a death ensued, and I’d begun.’
‘Then shout near rails, at platform’s skirt,
the startled toppled ‘pon wire, dirt
As I’d foreseen, worked like a dream,
another life shorn short, cut curt.’
‘My kind warnings, not what they seem,
mere traps to goad, to guide; they gleam
and kill with hidden wickedness,
distortion past the last extreme.’
‘A planned chance drowning, a hard press,
Ninety-nine times, I must confess,
what once did spark has now grown old,
such is the state I must address.’
With incredulity most cold,
the six regard the story bold,
exchanging glances, thrown and caught,
until the hour of tea is tolled.
By pretty maid the tea is brought,
A gun is waved, all hear the shot,
The teller cries, ‘One hundred, there!’
‘One hundred deaths my mind has wrought!’
Aghast at blooming wound, six stare
But then without a hitch or care,
the maid sits up and laughs out loud.
‘Your trick has worked! Of blanks, beware!”
The storyteller grins, so proud,
displays the prop-gun to stunned crowd.
‘’Twas pure theatricality!’
The watching six are vexed, not wowed.
‘You think it most unfair of me
fright’ning such a Miss. Let’s see
her turn the tables, get revenge
before we have our spot of tea.’
‘Dear Miss, if I might just impinge
on your good will, without tinge
of shame, do take the gun and fire,
like so, to best avoid the singe.’
The maid obliged the man’s desire.
She took the gun, with nerves, not ire,
and shot, point-blank, into his chest.
He smiled and crumpled, dead and dire.
No joke, no ruse, no show, no test.
‘I only shot at his behest!’
cried the maid. Said one of the six,
‘His hundredth death, by far, his best.’
The six found that they could not fix
the wounds nor the wrongness in their mix.
They voted at once to disband,
abandon horror tales and tricks.
Fandom: "The Red Chamber" by Edogawa Rampo [a short story available in English translation here]
Poetic Form: rubaiyat
Notes: a summary of the short story and is SPOILERS for that work
Summary: A small literary club where members meet to share horror stories accepts a new member. He has an interesting story to tell.
Length: 450
Rating: Gen
An assembly of seven men,
they gather in a scarlet den,
a like-minded society,
devoted to the horror pen.
With solemn propriety,
and glee in fright, anxiety,
the men convene to share fraught tales,
dread, spice of their variety.
The seven sit in silent veils,
their faces much like coffin-nails,
until the new one clears his throat
and knits his yarn of darks and pales.
‘Abhorring all that’s norm and rote,
I found that boredom’s antidote,
for me, was murder, indirect,
at which I shine, if I may gloat.’
‘Of death, I’ve been the architect
in ninety-nine events, suspect
in not a one, no, in not one,
my record clean, in that respect.’
‘Sheer accident, though truth may stun,
wrong directions, rescue undone,
to shoddy care I sent the hurt,
a death ensued, and I’d begun.’
‘Then shout near rails, at platform’s skirt,
the startled toppled ‘pon wire, dirt
As I’d foreseen, worked like a dream,
another life shorn short, cut curt.’
‘My kind warnings, not what they seem,
mere traps to goad, to guide; they gleam
and kill with hidden wickedness,
distortion past the last extreme.’
‘A planned chance drowning, a hard press,
Ninety-nine times, I must confess,
what once did spark has now grown old,
such is the state I must address.’
With incredulity most cold,
the six regard the story bold,
exchanging glances, thrown and caught,
until the hour of tea is tolled.
By pretty maid the tea is brought,
A gun is waved, all hear the shot,
The teller cries, ‘One hundred, there!’
‘One hundred deaths my mind has wrought!’
Aghast at blooming wound, six stare
But then without a hitch or care,
the maid sits up and laughs out loud.
‘Your trick has worked! Of blanks, beware!”
The storyteller grins, so proud,
displays the prop-gun to stunned crowd.
‘’Twas pure theatricality!’
The watching six are vexed, not wowed.
‘You think it most unfair of me
fright’ning such a Miss. Let’s see
her turn the tables, get revenge
before we have our spot of tea.’
‘Dear Miss, if I might just impinge
on your good will, without tinge
of shame, do take the gun and fire,
like so, to best avoid the singe.’
The maid obliged the man’s desire.
She took the gun, with nerves, not ire,
and shot, point-blank, into his chest.
He smiled and crumpled, dead and dire.
No joke, no ruse, no show, no test.
‘I only shot at his behest!’
cried the maid. Said one of the six,
‘His hundredth death, by far, his best.’
The six found that they could not fix
the wounds nor the wrongness in their mix.
They voted at once to disband,
abandon horror tales and tricks.
no subject
Date: 2021-05-23 10:08 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2021-05-24 02:54 am (UTC)