Mind on Fire Books

Welcome to the shadow cabinet of verse, where folklore is visceral, and beauty is laced with the macabre. In this collection of eerie gothic poems, these five pieces are not simply read; they are experienced—each one a ritual, a fever dream, or a confession pulled from the darkest corners of human experience. They endure because they touch the primal fears that no amount of light can truly extinguish.

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1. The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore— While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. “’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door— Only this and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December; And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore— For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door— Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;— This it is, and nothing more.”

… [The full poem continues for 18 stanzas] Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.” … And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door; And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor; And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor Shall be lifted—nevermore!

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2. The Vampire by Conrad Aiken

She rose among us where we lay. She wept, we put our work away. She chilled our laughter, stilled our play; And spread a silence there.

And darkness shot across the sky, And once, and twice, we heard her cry; And saw her lift white hands on high And toss her troubled hair.

What shape was this who came to us, With basilisk eyes so ominous, With mouth so sweet, so poisonous, And tortured hands so pale?

We saw her wavering to and fro, Through dark and wind we saw her go; Yet what her name was did not know; And felt our spirits fail.

… [The full poem continues for 14 more stanzas] … And this we heard: “Who dies for me, He shall possess me secretly, My terrible beauty he shall see, And slake my body’s flame. But who denies me cursed shall be, And slain, and buried loathsomely, And slimed upon with shame.”

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3. The Haunted Oak by Paul Laurence Dunbar

Pray why are you so bare, so bare, Oh, bough of the old oak-tree; And why, when I go through the shade you throw, Runs a shudder over me?

My leaves were green as the best, I trow, And sap ran free in my veins, But I saw in the moonlight dim and weird A guiltless victim’s pains.

I bent me down to hear his sigh; I shook with his gurgling moan, And I trembled sore when they rode away, And left him here alone.

… [The poem details the mob’s deceit and violence]

I feel the rope against my bark, And the weight of him in my grain, I feel in the throe of his final woe, The touch of my own last pain.

And never more shall leaves come forth On the bough that bears the ban; I am burned with dread, I am dried and dead, From the curse of a guiltless man.

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4. The Spider and the Fly by Mary Howitt -Eerie Gothic Poems continued…

“Will you walk into my parlour?” said the Spider to the Fly, “’Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did spy; The way into my parlour is up a winding stair, And I’ve a many curious things to show when you are there.” “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “to ask me is in vain, For who goes up your winding stair can ne’er come down again.”

“I’m sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?” said the Spider to the Fly. “There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest a while, I’ll snugly tuck you in!” “Oh no, no,” said the little Fly, “for I’ve often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!”

… [The Spider tries flattery, mentioning her “gauzy wings” and “brilliant eyes”]

Alas, alas! how very soon this silly little Fly, Hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by; With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew, Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and green and purple hue; Thinking only of her crested head—poor foolish thing! At last, Up jumped the cunning Spider, and fiercely held her fast. He dragged her up his winding stair, into his dismal den, Within his little parlour, but she ne’er came out again!

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5. The Little Ghost by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I knew her for a little ghost That in my garden walked; The wall is high—higher than most— And the green gate was locked.

And yet I did not think of that Till after she was gone— I knew her by the broad white hat, All ruffled, she had on.

By the dear ruffles round her feet, By her small hands that hung In their lace mitts, austere and sweet, Her gown’s white folds among.

… [The poem describes her movements through the garden]

She held her gown on either side To let her slippers show, And up the walk she went with pride, The way great ladies go.

And where the wall is built in new, And is of ivy bare, She paused—then opened and passed through A gate that once was there.

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Thank you for visiting with us. For more Poetry or Literature related content, visit our blog at The Ritual. Copyright Mind on Fire Books.