Hello, Björn here, and tonight I’m your poetic witchmaster and we have fresh potion from bubbling cauldrons here in the bare.

Double, double toil and trouble.

Tonight’s all hallows eve and beasts are everywhere. They cry for candy and if we aren’t prepared we will fall victims to their tricks.

But what if they cannot be silenced with your sweets sweets… what if beasts are there for real? Are there vampires raising from the grave tonight? Will there be zombies and werewolves? What if the sounds you hear are not from kids but ghouls and ghosts? What if those howls are demons and not the wind?

Can you hear the scratch from tiny claws?

Tonight I want you to consider a monster you fear and write a poem from their perspective.

Maybe they have a conscience like the vampire in Sting’s song Moon over Bourbon Street:

“I must love what I destroy and destroy the thing I love”

Or can the werewolf be a metaphor for incest like it is for me in the lyrics to Werewolf by Cocorosie:

“He had your hands and my father’s face”

So go into the darkness and try to imagine the anguish, the lust or the evil mind of the real monsters that keep us awake a night like this. Try to go deeper and present the complexity of terror.

Or maybe there is humor in the way you would laugh at an old horror movie… misunderstandings or even worse a wretched lonely man or woman being haunted by their loneliness.

As a last piece of Inspiration I will give you Lord Byron:

The Giaour [Unquenched, unquenchable]

    … Unquenched, unquenchable,
Around, within, thy heart shall dwell;
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
But first, on earth as vampire sent,
Thy corse shall from its tomb be rent:
Then ghastly haunt thy native place,
And suck the blood of all thy race;
There from thy daughter, sister, wife,
At midnight drain the stream of life;
Yet loathe the banquet which perforce
Must feed thy livid living corse:
Thy victims ere they yet expire
Shall know the demon for their sire,
As cursing thee, thou cursing them,
Thy flowers are withered on the stem.
But one that for thy crime must fall,
The youngest, most beloved of all,
Shall bless thee with a father’s name —
That word shall wrap thy heart in flame!
Yet must thou end thy task, and mark
Her cheek’s last tinge, her eye’s last spark,
And the last glassy glance must view
Which freezes o’er its lifeless blue;
Then with unhallowed hand shalt tear
The tresses of her yellow hair,
Of which in life a lock when shorn
Affection’s fondest pledge was worn,
But now is borne away by thee,
Memorial of thine agony!

You decide how to write but I can guarantee that there will be awards given to anyone that manage to scare me.

When you have written your poem link it up; browse and comment on other poem and step by for a sip of Bloody Mary and some grave yard talks.