#27 - Wait... what was the question?

This poem was supposed to be about the Chupacabra, a mythical dog-like creature sighted in countries in South and Central America, as well as parts of the United States. The poem ended up being about imposter syndrome and the limits of trying to predict the future. I don't know, go figure! Anyway, the name 'chupacabra' literally translates to 'goat sucker' - which is gross. So, there!


Don’t let the gods of fortune boss you round
(the Fates can take the piss a little bit)
disaster follows some folk in a crowd
and life can be an oyster, filled with grit.

Don’t let imposter syndrome grind you down
shrug off the jeers of “Fraud!” and “Hypocrite!”
Taking risks can lead to the profound;
there’s satisfaction popping every zit!

Uncertainty shouts in a voice so loud
to render optimism counterfeit.
Confidence, unfettered and unbound,
is like an STI. So, go! Transmit!

Ignore the voice that tells you not to fight;
it's potent as a Chupacabra's bite.*


LM

This is a Nightjar (also called a Goat Sucker) 

*i.e. not very potent, coz Chupacabra's aren't real. Or, they're only as real as you believe them to be. A bit like imposter syndrome really. "Oh, clever! I see what you did there!"

#26 – A Matter of Interpretation

Neu: Materion Dehongli

The Gog Magogs is part of what passes for a mountain in Cambridgeshire, complete with a myriad odd tales – the nomenclature is suitably confusing, considering that a) the legend to which it appears to pertain is i) based in Cornwall or Devon (to do with the legendary invasion of the Trojans to found Britannia), and ii) probably a corruption of the Welsh for “Madoc The Giant”; and b) getting some precision over which bit is Gog, which Magog, and why they’re even called that is a thankless task that Wikipedia, for one, shuns. Then we tack on the whole Biblical thing about who even Gog and Magog are supposed to have been/ be, and three conspiracy tales later (this year’s theme has seen me visit a surprising number of them in my cryptid research and I can only imagine that the secret service agent assigned to my internet browsing history must be having a more interesting month than usual) sees me throw my hands up and pluck this mash-up from the depths of recent forays into online conversations in flexible tongues (with grateful thanks to the custodians of this particular rhyming dictionary, a ymddiheuriadau i unrhyw siaradwyr Cymraeg ma).


“The giants’ mothers came from overseas;
“Their father cast them forth for being bold.”
Their guide’s face twists, like talking of disease;
They shiver in the damp, persistent cold.

They root him out at last, curled up in sleep.
“Mound to men come forth!” they rattle, proud.
“It’s prophesied your death shall sain our keep!”
“O dewch, come on, mae’n gynnar – not so loud!”

He sighs, his height unfurls, their heads reel back.
Hands tighten on their weapons, shoulders square.
“Proffwydoliaeth? Nah, I’ll dodge that cac.
“You want this spot? Dim ots, I’ll move up there…”

Y Gwirionedd Hanes? Anodd iawn.
Mae’n amlwg weld nad yw ein wlad yn llawn.

– FR

Corineus or Jack? Pwy sy'n cymrawd bach hwn?

#23 - I go where I please

The Beast of Gévaudan is name of a man-eating animal that terrorised south-central France in the mid-eighteenth century. Most descriptions from the period identify the beast as a large dog or wolf with 'formidable teeth and an immense tail'. These legends have influenced subsequent versions of Little Red Riding Hood, as well as stories of werewolves! Woof! 

Tradition states that ruin comes to those
who deviate from customary trails.
But don’t believe these cautionary tales:
injustice is a wolf in sheepish clothes.

And, luckily for me, I am no lamb:
I’ve bled and birthed and screamed my insides raw.
I am a warrior in tooth and claw;
I will not be confined for beast nor man.

“Don’t wander in the night! Don’t stay out late!
The creatures in the dark will come for you!”
I hope they come so I can demonstrate
my mastery of Judo and Kung Fu.

This is the surest of all certainties:
I am not tethered – I go where I please.

LM

Source

#22 – Brown Willy, Rough

Or: Carl and Sigmund Have a Field Day

The Beast of Bodmin Moor is the most recent of the monsters I’ve been given for this challenge. However, since it predates the heights of internet-born mythological fecundity but doesn’t have the cultural weight of centuries behind it, every entry I’ve sourced on it is curiously short, and as bare-boned as the moors themselves: there were wild cats, there may be still. A myth that’s younger than me is odd to encapsulate. I was in a dry mood when I wrote this, clearly…


They say that there’s a Creature on the moor.
They say Luke’s uncle’s mate saw it at dusk.
They say that he was absolutely sure.
They laid on brandy for this trembling husk.

The nameless experts nod and stroke their chins.
They say that they believe it to be so.
I trawl through ugly sites and turn to sin;
Laugh, marvelling: this was so short ago!

Three pumas freed in 1978,
Exotic rug abandoned in a stream;
These opened up and propped that deep-down gate
That lets us populate the mists with dreams.

We’ll always need these beasts of our creation
So pour them now credulity’s libation.

– FR

COULD THIS BE IT?! scream the online article captions...

#19 - The Reunion

In Medieval folklore, Blemmyes were mythical headless men who were rumoured to live in remote parts of the world. (Not to be confused with the real-life Blemmyes who were completely different.) I started thinking about whether Blemmyes might get bullied at school, given their slightly unusual appearance...

Now, everyone has one friend who they hate 
whose spiteful humour fills his mates with dread,
who tries his best to make his pals see red,
who needles, snarks, and all round irritates.

“Don’t lose your head! Oh no, you did! Too late!”
You wish you’d picked another school instead.
There’s part of you that wishes he’d drop dead
but he won’t quit, so everything stagnates.

You haven’t seen this guy for twenty years
and suddenly, he’s with you at the bar.
He asks you if your ‘armpits hide your ears’
Now, after all these years, he’s gone too far

He’s sleazy and he doesn’t pay for drinks:
“Just fuck off, Greg! No one cares what you think.”

LM

Source: Schedel's Nuremberg Chronicle (1493) plus Photoshop

#18 – A Good Boy

Black Shuck is a massive, black, spectral hound who haunts the churchyards and winding lanes of Fenland, and made particularly memorable impressions on the churches of Bungay and Blythburgh on 4 August 1577. He is said to be a harbinger of doom – to see him is to know you’re likely to die within the year (apparently, if you hear him, you should close your eyes). With one theory being that Shuck is a remnant of Odin’s Wild Hunt, I wondered what that might be like…

I only want someone to call my name –
The one He gave, not scucca, Shug, or Shuck.
Abandoned in this marsh to untrimmed fame,
Without Him by my side, it seems I’m stuck.

These flatland folk can’t see me save at night,
And when they do, they’re never any fun –
They never want to play, or hunt, or fight;
They only want to whimper, freeze, or run.

But I was trained to hold strait to my course,
To stick and strive until the job’s complete.
If I can show I’m fast as any horse,
Then maybe He’ll return and give me treats.

Until He rides this way I’ll haunt this fen,
And howl alone until I’m Pack again.

–FR

The original, identikit picture of Black Shuck looks more like a ram than a dog. This is cuter, trust me. Source.

#15 - Do they make Nurofen for zombies?

A jiangshi, also known as a Chinese hopping vampire or hopping zombie, is a type of reanimated corpse in Chinese legends and folklore. Jiangshi can be created in a number of different ways, including through the use of supernatural arts to resurrect the dead. This poem is a cautionary tale: being a zombie isn't all it's cracked up to be...


Not every remedy is kindly meant,
and what is built to cure can wound instead.
I am the accidental revenant
since, after death, not all of us are dead.

The stiffness in my limbs is pain enough
without the throbbing chaos in my head.
My soul is dislocated, and it’s tough
to shop for analgesics when you are dead.

Who hasn’t wished that they could have more time?
That primal yearning passion to exist.
It’s tempting to outstay the final chimes
without a backward glance, but not like this.

No paracetamol will numb the ache
of being half asleep and half awake.

LM 

The characters for Jiang Shi mean 'stiff corpse'

#13 – Knight Ride

Jump to search

A brag or braag is a mischievous shapeshifting goblin in the folklore of Northumbria, and often takes the form of a horse or donkey. It is fond of letting unsuspecting humans ride on its back before bucking them off into a pond or bush and running away laughing.

As we begin to gallop, you’re my lord:
control is thine, the reins are in thy fist.
Commands are law that cannot be ignored –
to serve you is my reason to exist.
Then, later in our roving, there’s a bond:
our minds enleagued, a union transmundane –
where thought and movement nimbly correspond,
the night our fief, and speed our sole demesne.
But speed is ever governed by the slowest –
as we conclude our roaming, this is clear:
the tardy one is thee – I think thou knowest –
since thou imbibed six flagons full of beer.
So off my back I’ll toss thee, errant knight,
and hie thee hence into yon ditch of shite.
AWB

Cheaper than an Uber, I guess.

#10 – The Separator

Or: Garlic only thins the blood; the heart beats on

The Manananggal is a vampiric entity from the Philippines which lives as a normal woman during the day but cleaves her body at night, grows wings, and flies (top half only) to find her sleeping victims. She’s particularly fond of pregnant women, and can be slain by keeping the two halves separated (using garlic, salt, ash, and/ or vinegar) until dawn.

It must be nice to fly so high, she sighs;
She’s never stepped beyond the village green.
She longs for all the wide expanse of skies,
The sights that she’s imagined still unseen.

I smile, and tell her of the scents of clouds,
The songs the wind makes in the chimney-tops,
The calling of the tik-tik bird – so loud!
This beauty should feel real before it stops.

She snuggles deep, now I must do my part
To take away the thing that holds her down.
I’ll siphon out this claim that chains her heart
So she can find her way out of this town.

It’s hard to dance when half yourself is tied.
Forget the salt and ash – I’m on your side.

This, believe it or not, was one of the least pornographic images of the Manananggal I could find. This is what happens if you’re a female monster in horror movies, I guess…

#7 - Doubt

A Binbōgami is a kami (or god) in Japanese folklore. Binbōgami usually possess a person (or their house) and bring bad luck, illness, misery and poverty.

A curse is far more potent than a wish;
a mirrored surface, tarnished with regret.
You cannot counter misery with bliss
when love is just a thinly-veiled threat.

A curse is envy in another guise;
a copper-coated weight inside your gut.
Sometimes the absence is the greater prize
and that which once was open must be shut.

A curse can be a masquerade of hope:
a shifting silver slither of belief.
We are the patterns in kaleidoscopes;
we twist and turn to circumvent our grief.

Infinity is malice, only worse.
A lie provides the kindness in a curse.

LM

Source

#6 – Tarpit

The yara-ma-yha-who is an Australian cryptid with a precise and unchanging modus operandi. It resembles a bright red, four-foot cross between a tree frog and a tarsier.

It starts off with the gentlest embrace
And you, in search of shelter, welcome how
He offers your scorched heart a shady bough
And takes your hand with all a host’s good grace.
You learn to not look closely at his face
(And you’re no oil painting, anyhow);
Your home seems very distant now, somehow,
And time can lose its meaning in this place.

When you return, your friends say that you’ve changed:
Diminished, flushing, apt to drift away.
You find yourself unsure of what to say,
So offer them his grace in sweet exchange.
They’ll learn the hard way: better to play dead
Than be consumed by soft-mouthed figureheads.

– FR

A yara-ma-yha-who – here shown with hair, for some reason. Please note for your own safety: unlike most vampiric myths, the yara-ma-yha-who hunts in the daytime, when you’re seeking shade...

#5 - The Devil Went Down To Heston

So I was supposed to write about the Monster of Glamis, but I got distracted by reading about Earl Beardie, so this came out instead. I am not at all sorry about that.

Oh man, I never cease to be amazed,
in all my dealings with your craven kind,
how worthlessly a human soul's appraised;
how heedlessly the gruesome pact is signed.
Some swap for youth and money – power too;
the fleeting glories of a mortal coil.
Eternal youth's a common theme, that's true;
revenge; and pretty virgins to despoil. 

These bargains seem so frivolous to me:
a game of cards? A doughnut? What the Hell?
I find your aspirations so bizarre!
Except, of course, the strong desire to be
that worthy favoured of my clientele:
a fucking God at playing rock guitar.

AWB

This is totes how Jimmy Page got started.

#3 - The Law of the Loch

The Loch Ness Monster

If I had twenty pence for every day
the locals swore that I did not exist,
then maybe I would have the funds to pay
for fuzzy clones of me from “Monster Gifts”.

My daily affirmation: “I am real”
is met with whispered scorn and bitter snubs.
The sceptics shun me with religious zeal.
They’ve also barred me from the local pubs.

They’ll gladly use my face to sell their tat,
but won’t acknowledge my autonomy.
I’ve weighed my legal options and all that -
But mythic beasts aren’t covered by IP.

I'm sueing “Monster Gifts” for copyright;
they cannot use my face without a fight!


LM

#2 – Sasquatch

Sasquatch: noun, anglicisation of the Halq̓eméylem (Stó:lõ dialect) term sásq'ets, meaning “wild man”. Source: Wikipedia and The Bigfoot Field Researchers Organization.

It’s said that there are those who claimed us hoax,
And those who only wanted to believe,
Despite the hopes, the fears, the jeers, the jokes;
It seems the sightings caused soft hearts to grieve.

Some praised our strangeness, labelled us benign;
Some called us elders come back from the dead.
But others warned we were not so divine –
We’d steal incautious children from their beds.

We shook the trees, took salmon from their nets;
We poisoned ground and toppled holy art.
We stripped the land, flipped treaties into threats,
And proved ourselves the wilder men at heart.

As well believe the Bigfoot to be real,
As trust a white man’s promise on a deal.

– FR

Purported Ancient First Nations art depicting Bigfoot, though I can’t find out where it’s from originally...

Predominantly reported in the Pacific North-West, the name Bigfoot is relatively recent (mid-20th Century). They have many names among First Nations People in the region, and their legend ranges from gentle, through to whistling child-snatchers who must not be named. In 1940, Indian Agent J. W. Burns, republishing his tales from the 1920s as collected from the people of the region, borrowed the term Sasquatch from the Halq̓eméylem sásq'ets (IPA: [ˈsæsqʼəts]) and used it in his articles to describe a hypothetical single type of creature portrayed in the local stories. There are a frankly astonishing number of websites dedicated to researching and preserving the notion of a real-life creature.

#1 - Monocular

Polyphemus  is the one-eyed giant son of Poseidon and Thoosa in Greek mythology, one of the Cyclopes described in Homer's Odyssey. His name means "abounding in songs and legends".

I used to see bright stars that circled round

this isle of mine. And then Nobody lied.

I used to watch the flock that roamed beside

the waves, protecting any strays I found.

I’d calmly shepherd them to higher ground,

to keep them safe from any rising tide.

I made my home where sea and earth collide –

a land of song and legend, light and sound.

And now I live in darkness, thanks to you –

blinded with nothing but a clumsy point.

For what? It cannot be Poseidon’s will

that shadow comes disguised as all that’s true!

You cannot be the one the Gods’ anoint!

You are Nobody: you lie to me still.

AWB

Get back in the sea, Odysseus.