{"id":1353,"date":"2020-05-11T07:14:05","date_gmt":"2020-05-11T05:14:05","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/?p=1353"},"modified":"2020-05-11T07:13:59","modified_gmt":"2020-05-11T05:13:59","slug":"the-marsh-house","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/2020\/05\/the-marsh-house\/","title":{"rendered":"The Marsh House"},"content":{"rendered":"

Image: Mist 194\/366 by Blue Square Thing on Flickr, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0<\/a><\/span><\/p>\n

Author:\u00a0<\/strong>Laure Cepl<\/p>\n

The Marsh House <\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I<\/p>\n

Nineteen-thirty, the year she felt the breeze<\/p>\n

Caressing her pale porcelain face. Blushing<\/p>\n

In the dimming daylight of New Year\u2019s freeze,<\/p>\n

Her cheeks are covered by a wrinkled skin.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Time streaked it like thunderbolts, frail, outstretched.<\/p>\n

Samhain\u2019s sun sets over her glazed eyes.<\/p>\n

With a crescent of violets, they\u2019re decked.<\/p>\n

Weary eyelids quiver to the twilight skies.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The forgotten Dame of the Marshlands,<\/p>\n

Who was left to sink into oblivion.<\/p>\n

She gives me a smile as I shake her hand,<\/p>\n

And squeaks a \u201cBienvenue \u00e0 la maison\u201d.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

II<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

The burgundy tapestries feel so warm,<\/p>\n

The old wood scent tickles my nostrils, while<\/p>\n

I sit on the dusty chesterfield. White<\/p>\n

Laced threads above my head – spectral textile.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

My host asks the grand maestro, Petrof –<\/p>\n

Dear old friend of mine, forgotten but missed,<\/p>\n

To sing me tales of men who fell in love<\/p>\n

With the Moon. Nostalgia, who my soul kissed.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I find myself dancing in her embrace,<\/p>\n

While she lulls me to sleep in her nightgown.<\/p>\n

\u201cRemember\u2026Remember, I was the face<\/p>\n

Who rocked you when no one was around.\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Black widows in the shadows join the waltz,<\/p>\n

They swing on the chandeliers as we dance<\/p>\n

Languidly to the sound of the The Kiss Waltz<\/em><\/p>\n

Drunk with Shalimar, exotic fragrance.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hair on her shoulders, like flames flickering,<\/p>\n

Red velvet petals brush my neck saying<\/p>\n

Bewitching words, casting spells, whispering<\/p>\n

\u201cBring your lips close to mine while we\u2019re swaying\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

A silky curtain softly veils my eyes.<\/p>\n

Hypnotized, my senses forget slowly<\/p>\n

As the music fades and the fire dies<\/p>\n

The chimney\u2019s shadow rising behind me.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

III<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

But once the night falls, the marble, icy<\/p>\n

Chills my feet and turns them into grey stones.<\/p>\n

In the growing darkness, I start to see<\/p>\n

Unfamiliar figures, all skin and bones.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Oh horror! Oh, their ghastly glance, tarnished!<\/p>\n

Rags hanging on their limbs, wearing grim grins,<\/p>\n

Silent creatures, staring at me, famished,<\/p>\n

while I shiver against the cold dead skin!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Out of their frames, the ghostly shadows crawl<\/p>\n

Across the halls, echo bellows of woe,<\/p>\n

Opened jaws, scratched walls, watch them scrawl.<\/p>\n

Cold tears of sorrow roll down the windows.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Seven ghoulish foes dancing around me<\/p>\n

Putting curses and stamping on the ground<\/p>\n

Macabre ritual! They torment me!<\/p>\n

\u201cCome with us\u201d, they say, \u201cto the Underground!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

I break the circle and fall on the floor<\/p>\n

\u201cLet me out! Let me out!\u201d\u00a0 I implore<\/p>\n

She moans and groans as she shuts the door –<\/p>\n

\u201cStay in my company, forevermore!\u201d<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Hear her mourn! Lonesome soul, she grew cold!<\/p>\n

Vanished, they have all spirited away.<\/p>\n

Plagued by dreadful grief like a dark foul mould,<\/p>\n

The Dame of the Marshlands dwells in decay!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Daughter, Sister, Mother and Grandmother.<\/p>\n

She is haunted by the absence of some<\/p>\n

Who once loved her enough to call her<\/p>\n

\u201cHome\u201d.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Image: Mist 194\/366 by Blue Square Thing on Flickr, CC BY-NC-SA 2.0 Author:\u00a0Laure Cepl The Marsh House   I Nineteen-thirty, the year she felt the breeze Caressing her pale porcelain face. Blushing In the dimming daylight of New Year\u2019s freeze, Her cheeks are covered by a wrinkled skin.   Time streaked it like thunderbolts, frail, […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1001678,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_seopress_robots_primary_cat":"","_seopress_titles_title":"","_seopress_titles_desc":"","_seopress_robots_index":"","footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[60],"tags":[36],"class_list":{"0":"post-1353","1":"post","2":"type-post","3":"status-publish","4":"format-standard","6":"category-spring-2020","7":"tag-poetry"},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1353","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1001678"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=1353"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/1353\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=1353"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=1353"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/wp.unil.ch\/musemagazine\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=1353"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}