Vampire Flavoured Update

PART ONE
                                                 I
    THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came racing—
                      racing—racing—
    The highwayman came racing, up to the Holloway’s door.
                                                 II
    He'd a black helmet on his forehead, a knot of silk at his chin,
    A coat of the blackest leather, and jeans of deep blue denim;
    He wore them with gashes in the knees: his engine a dark battle-cry,
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
                      His violet eyes a-twinkle,
    His brightest white fangs a-twinkle, under the star-lit sky.
                                                 III
    All through the gravel he carved out a path in the dark courtyard,
    And he peered through the glass of the windows, but all was locked and barred;
    He climbed up to look in a dark cell; who should be locked up there?
   The vampire’s charcoal-eyed lover,
                      Rose, the vampire’s lover,
    Coating her neck with powder, to hide bite-marks there.
                                                 IV
    And dark in the dark old courtyard a picnic table creaked
    Where Tim the jailor listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollowed prejudice, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he feared the vampire’s lover,
                      The vampire’s fang-marked lover,
    Quiet as a mouse he listened, and heard the vampire say—
                                                 V
    "One sip, my bonny sweetheart, I'm out for a feed to-night,
     I shall be back filled with the red blood before the morning light;
    Yet, if they hunt me smartly, and bury me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
                      Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
                                                 VI
    He rose up on the handle bars; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she sliced her wrist o' the window! His throat burnt like a brand
    As the iron cascade of perfume came tumbling over his mouth;
    And he drank it in ‘neath the moonlight,
                      (Oh, sweet, red bliss in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his clutch in the moonlight, and screamed away to the South.
 
                                        PART TWO
                                                 I
    He did not come before dawning; did not come with the moon;
    And out o' the golden sunrise, before the jail clock struck noon,
    When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
    A slayer’s van came driving—
                      Driving—driving—
    The hunting men came driving, up to the prison door.
                                                 II
    They said no word to the jailor, they walked straight past instead,
    But they gagged the vampire’s lover, and bound her to the foot of her bed;
    Two of them knelt at her casement, with wood stakes at their side!
    There was death at every window;
                      And hell at one dark window;
    For Rose could see, through the portal, the road that he would ride.
                                                 III
    They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
    They bound a silver crossbow beside her, the pale tip beneath her breast!
    "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
                      She heard the dead man say—
    Look for me by moonlight;
                      Watch for me by moonlight;
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!
                                                 IV
    She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
    She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
    They stretched and strained in her harness, and the hours crawled by like years,
    Till, at the last of the sunlight,
                     On the last rays of sunlight,
    The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!
                                                 V
    The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
    Up, she stood up to attention, with silver tip beneath her breast,
    She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
    For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
                      Blank and bare in the moonlight;
    And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .
                                                 VI
        Revving; revving; Had they heard it? The engine growling clear;
    Revving; revving, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
    Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
    The highwayman came racing,
                      Racing, racing!
    The slayers looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
                                                 VII
    Revving, in the frosty silence! Revving, in the echoing night!
    Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
    Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
    Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
                      Her crossbow shattered the moonlight,
    Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.
                                                 VIII
    He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
    Bowed, with her head o'er the crossbow, drenched with her own red blood!
    Not till next dark he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
    How Rose, the vampire’s lover,
                      The vampire’s black-eyed lover,
    Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.
                                                 IX
    Back, he streaked like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
    With the white road smoking behind him and his magnum brandished high!
    Blood-red were his eyes i' the silver moon; coal-black was his leather coat,
    When they staked him down on the road,
                      Up in scarlet flames on the road,
Shrivelling into grey dust on the road, with the knot of silk at his throat.
                  *           *           *           *           *           *
                                                 X
    And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
    When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    A highwayman comes racing—
                      Racing—racing—
    A highwayman comes racing, up to the prison door.
                                                 XI
    All through gravel he carves out a path in the dark courtyard;
    He peers through the glass of the windows, but all is locked and barred;
    He climbs up to look in a dark cell;  who should be locked up there?
    The vampire’s charcoal-eyed lover,
                      Rose, the vampire’s lover,
   Coating her neck with powder, to hide bite-marks there.


Tell me what you think.
Christ knows I have little better to do.

Vampire, but updated.

PART ONE

I

　 　 THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
　 　 The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
　 　 The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
　 　 And the highwayman came racing—
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 racing—racing—
　 　 The highwayman came racing, up to the old jail-door.

II

　 　 He'd a black helmet on his forehead, a knot of silk at his chin,
　 　 A coat of the blackest leather, and jeans of deep blue denim;
　 　 He wore them with gashes in the knees: his engine a dark battle-cry,
　 　 And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 His violet eyes a-twinkle,
　 　 His brightest white fangs a-twinkle, under the star-lit sky.

III

　 　 Over the gravel he clattered and clashed in the dark courtyard,
　 　 And he tapped with his gloves on the windows, but all was locked and barred;
　 　 He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
　 　 But the vampire’s black-eyed lover,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Bess, the vampire’s lover,
　 　 Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

IV

　 　 And dark in the dark old courtyard a picnic table creaked
　 　 Where Tim the jailor listened; his face was white and peaked;
　 　 His eyes were hollowed prejudice, his hair like mouldy hay,
　 　 But he feared the vampire’s lover,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 The vampire’s fang-marked lover,
　 　 Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the vampire say—

V

　 　 "One sip, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a feed to-night,
　 　I shall be back filled with the red blood before the morning light;
　 　 Yet, if they hunt me smartly, and bury me through the day,
　 　 Then look for me by moonlight,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Watch for me by moonlight,
　 　 I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

VI

　 　 He rose up on the handle bars; he scarce could reach her hand,
　 　 But she sliced her wrist o' the window! His throat burnt like a brand
　 　 As the iron cascade of perfume came tumbling over his mouth;
　 　 And he drank its waves in the moonlight,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 (Oh, sweet, red waves in the moonlight!)
　 　 Then he tugged at his clutch in the moonlight, and screamed away to the South.

　

PART TWO

I

　 　 He did not come before dawning; did not come with the moon;
　 　 And out o' the golden sunrise, before the old clock struck noon,
　 　 When the road was a gypsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
　 　 A red-coat troop came marching—
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Marching—marching—
　 　 The Army’s men came marching, up to the prison door.

II

　 　 They said no word to the jailor, they walked straight past instead,
　 　 But they gagged the vampire’s lover, and bound her to the foot of her bed;
　 　 Two of them knelt at her casement, with wood stakes at their side!
　 　 There was death at every window;
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 And hell at one dark window;
　 　 For Bess could see, through the portal, the road that he would ride.

III

　 　 They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
　 　 They had bound a crossbow beside her, with the silver beneath her breast!
　 　 "Now, keep good watch!" and they kissed her.
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 She heard the dead man say—
　 　 Look for me by moonlight;
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Watch for me by moonlight;
　 　 I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

IV

　 　 She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
　 　 She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
　 　 They stretched and strained in her harness, and the hours crawled by like years,
　 　 Till, at the last of the sunlight,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　On the last rays of sunlight,
　 　 The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

V

　 　 The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
　 　 Up, she stood up to attention, with arrow tip beneath her breast,
　 　 She would not risk their hearing; she would not strive again;
　 　 For the road lay bare in the moonlight;
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Blank and bare in the moonlight;
　 　 And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her love's refrain .

VI

　 　 　 　 Revving; revving; Had they heard it? The engine growling clear;
　 　 Revving; revving, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
　 　 Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
　 　 The highwayman came racing,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Racing, racing!
　 　 The red-coats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!

VII

　 　 Revving, in the frosty silence! Revving, in the echoing night!
　 　 Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
　 　 Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
　 　 Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Her crossbow shattered the moonlight,
　 　 Shattered her breast in the moonlight and warned him—with her death.

VIII

　 　 He turned; he spurred to the West; he did not know who stood
　 　 Bowed, with her head o'er the crossbow, drenched with her own red blood!
　 　 Not till next dark he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
　 　 How Bess, the vampire’s lover,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 The vampire’s black-eyed lover,
　 　 Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

IX

　 　 Back, he streaked like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
　 　 With the white road smoking behind him and his magnum brandished high!
　 　 Blood-red were his eyes i' the silver moon; coal-black was his leather coat,
　 　 When they staked him down on the road,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Up in scarlet flames on the road,
Shrivelling into grey dust on the road, with the knot of silk at his throat.

　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 * 　 　 　 　 　 * 　 　 　 　 　 * 　 　 　 　 　 * 　 　 　 　 　 * 　 　 　 　 　 *

X

　 　 And still of a winter's night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
　 　 When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
　 　 When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
　 　 A highwayman comes racing—
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Racing—racing—
　 　 A highwayman comes racing, up to the prison door.

XI

　 　 Over the gravel he clatters and clangs in the dark courtyard;
　 　 He taps with his gloves on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
　 　 He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
　 　 But the vampire’s black-eyed lover,
　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 　 Bess, the vampire’s lover,
　 　 Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Reading. Because you're picky.

I'm still trying to get through Pride and Prejudice OKAY???

Gothic Narrative.

I'm making a vampire version of The Highwayman.   This is what I have so far.  The bits in green are the bits I have changed.  He is now on a motorbike, and is a vampire.  She is in prison for cavorting about with a vampire, and having the evidence of such all over her neck.  It's only worth pasting part one here, because that's all I've done.

                                        PART ONE
                                                 I
    THE wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
    And the highwayman came racing—
                      racing—racing—
    The highwayman came racing, up to the old jail-door.
                                                 II
    He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,
    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
    They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to the thigh!
    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
                      His pistol butts a-twinkle,
    His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.
                                                 III
    Over the gravel he clattered and clashed in the dark courtyard,
    And he tapped with his gloves on the windows, but all was locked and barred;
    He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
    But the vampire’s black-eyed lover,
                      Bess, the vampire’s lover,
    Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.
                                                 IV
    And dark in the dark old courtyard a picnic table creaked
    Where Tim the jailor listened; his face was white and peaked;
    His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like mouldy hay,
    But he feared the vampire’s lover,
                      The vampire’s fang-marked lover,
    Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the vampire say—
                                                 V
    "One sip, my bonny sweetheart, I'm after a pint to-night,
     I shall be back with the deep red blood before the morning light;
    Yet, if they hunt me smartly, and bury me through the day,
    Then look for me by moonlight,
                      Watch for me by moonlight,
    I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."
                                                 VI
    He rose up on the handle bars; he scarce could reach her hand,
    But she sliced her wrist o' the window! His throat burnt like a brand
    As the iron cascade of perfume came tumbling over his lips;
    And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
                      (Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
    Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the West.

Porphyria's Loverrrrrrr

For your information:  Whilst writing this, I felt like arse.  Do not expect an excess of sense making.

I have issues with this.  Surely it is enough to have my poem annotations, which MENTION language, form and structure within them.
And actually, seeing as how I've forgotten the majority of how to actually do an essay on such things, I probably can't type anything useful.
How's about I copy the poem in here, and transcribe my notes up.
Good stuff.

The rain set early in tonight,         Pathetic fallacy?

The sullen wind was soon awake,

It tore the elm-tops down for spite,

And did its worst to vex the lake:

I listened with heart fit to break.

When glided in Porphyria; straight  Not walked?  Other-worldly?  Angelic?  Shutting out the cold.

She shut the cold out and the storm,

And kneeled and made the cheerless grate Effect she had on his life?

Blaze up, and all the cottage warm;

Which done, she rose, and from her form

Withdrew the dripping cloak and shawl,

And laid her soiled gloves by, untied

Her hat and let the damp hair fall,

And, last, she sat down by my side

And called me. When no voice replied,

She put my arm about her waist,

And made her smooth white shoulder bare,  Practically naked, makes her appears something of a "fallen woman"?  Ties in with idea of fallen angel.

And all her yellow hair displaced,

And, stooping, made my cheek lie there,

And spread, o'er all, her yellow hair,    Image for either her encompassing his life or halo?

Murmuring how she loved me — she

Too weak, for all her heart's endeavor,

To set its struggling passion free

From pride, and vainer ties dissever,

And give herself to me forever.

But passion sometimes would prevail,   Sex?

Nor could tonight's gay feast restrain

A sudden thought of one so pale

For love of her, and all in vain:

So, she was come through wind and rain.

Be sure I looked up at her eyes

Happy and proud; at last I knew    Wanted it for ages?  Now he has it he kills her?  MANIAC!

Porphyria worshiped me: surprise

Made my heart swell, and still it grew

While I debated what to do.   Godly, omniscient image, as though he is above the world and all it contains.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair,   All he wants to do is keep her?

Perfectly pure and good: I found    Angelic image again.  Ties in with hair, long and golden, like halo?

A thing to do, and all her hair

In one long yellow string I wound

Three times her little throat around,

And strangled her. No pain felt she;  Totally calm.   Enforces image of psychosis and nut-jobbery.

I am quite sure she felt no pain.    Omniscient and godlike, could also be reassuring self that did not hurt the lovely lady.

As a shut bud that holds a bee,    Worried she is still alive? Might involve repurcussions in defence.

I warily oped her lids: again

Laughed the blue eyes without a stain.

And I untightened next the tress

About her neck; her cheek once more

Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss:   Imagining it?  Hallucinating?  Psychotic.  Metaphor for her death?

I propped her head up as before,

Only, this time my shoulder bore

Her head, which droops upon it still:

The smiling rosy little head,

So glad it has its utmost will,

That all it scorned at once is fled,    Eh???

And I, its love, am gained instead!

Porphyria's love: she guessed not how

Her darling one wish would be heard.

And thus we sit together now,

And all night long we have not stirred,

And yet God has not said a word!     God's judgement is unimportant to him. Further proof of psychosis as in this time (1840s) not being religious unheard of and awful!?

Iambic pentameter
First person narrative
Setting: False sense of security?  Reverse pathetic fallacy meaning evil coldness is actually safer than lovely warm place.  Deceptive!
Temperature imagery.
Deluded throughout poem?

AMS Act Three Reading Journal

 In act three, the ending comes.
Chris has been out all night and no-one knows where he is.
Jim tells Kate he'll come home because he's a good son.
It's all a bit depressing, really.
Joe dies.   Yeah...  It was suicide.  I think really that takes all hope of him ever being a tragic hero away.  TRAGIC HEROES DO NOT KILL THEMSELVES.  Hmph.
That is basically the general opinion that I have, and I'm struggling to get past it to make a comment of any value.
The ENTIRE ACT completely DESTROYS the feeling of TRAGEDY and DESPAIR.
Yes, he kills himself.
HOWEVER, that's not tragic, because he wasn't a very nice man.
All we get at the end of this is a feeling that maybe Chris and Ann can be happy now because he's dead and so they won't have to have the burden of him being a shit between them for the rest of their lives.
Kate doesn't exactly act all depressy either, like normal people would if their husband died.  So what the hell, really?

An Unleashing Of Thoughts Upon The Thought That The Play Is A Tragedy

Right, let's at least try to make this sound a little more smart and organised.
An aim already specifically undermined by my opening sentence.

To really discuss whether or not AMS is a tragedy, we need to establish the characteristics of a tragedy within the play.
For example, there is issue as to who the tragic hero truly is.
Previous to us reading the play, it is established that Joe Keller is the protagonist.  This does not, however, make him the tragic hero.
A tragic hero has a fatal flaw, in this case that of his need to provide for his family at all costs.
His life certainly does fall apart in the day of his life that we experience.
HOWEVER.
A tragic hero is cut off in his prime, something that Joe clearly isn't.  He has experienced problems in his business including his partner being jailed for sending faulty aircraft parts off to the army (something we later discover is actually his fault, but in the beginning we have a picture painted for us that Joe is not in the least to fault). 
Aristotle also requires that the tragic hero be "noble".  Joe does not strike me as a noble man.  He is not a member of the gentility, nor does he portray a quality like courage or generosity.  Certainly he is seemingly well liked by his neighbours, but he is a business man at heart and so does not offer generosity, and the fact that he spun the blame of the aircraft part incident onto his business partner Steve may indicate a distinct LACK of courage.

The play could be considered a tragedy in that Larry could be considered the ghost of the play, haunting everyone to the point of going a bit nutty. Timing also could be a part of the play, as if Ann had sat down with Kate and the family at the VERY MOMENT SHE GOT THERE then there wouldn't have been an issue anymore.  Ann could marry Chris and Kate could get over the whole thing where she's gone a bit mental with grief and admittedly Joe would probably have ended up dead but it's not such a bad thing.

Joe's urgency to assign blame to Steve after the incident is also prelavent.

In my opinion, AMS is a tragedy, but not so much of a tragedy as Hamlet.  In Hamlet there is a degree of sympathy toward the protagonist, as others around him are causing shit too.  However, in AMS, Joe is basically causing all the problems himself.  Sure, he has a wife who cannot get over the death of their son, and he's getting old and has a business and whatever, but those aren't really problems like your mum marrying your uncle and your girlfriend topping herself.  To have a tragedy, you need tragedy to both be the fault of the protagonist and others, so that you can blame other people as well as the main man.  In AMS, the tragic hero does appear to be Larry, or Chris, because they are not as much to fault.  Larry doesn't actually appear to have any faults, other than that of an overactive sense of honour, and Chris' flaw is that he wants to continue with his life and no longer focus on the disappearance of his brother.  Whilst these characteristics certainly cause issue for the brothers, it is the actions of others which causes the most issue.

SO.  What are we concluding with here? 
Is it a tragedy?
A little bit.  It's got the ghosties and the misery and the fatal flaws of a classic Greek tragedy, but the tragic hero isn't all that well defined.  Joe is NOT the tragic hero, because the term "hero" implies something HEROIC.   Joe is a coward and a liar, and yet the protagonist. 


(A discovery made by Hanna is that if more than one person is viewing a google document at the same time there is a message system.  Like if you go on "Hamlet as a tragedy".  You have fun with that knowledge.)