The Vampire Hunter

I don't know what spirit possessed me when I wrote this poem.

We were given an assignment in Creative Writing class to write a poem. I spent two days working on one, carefully putting in the rhymes, paying special attention to the images I was creating, even integrating a hidden message amidst the lines. In short, intellectualizing the poem. After I had finished writing it, I read it and thought ... it was a boring read.

So I made another one, again spending two days. This time, in an attempt to connect with my audience more easily, I chose for my topic the romantic dilemma of someone who loves someone who loves someone else. I finished the poem and thought ... it was too trivial.

Ah, finally. Third time's the charm, alright. It was a charm indeed, but whether by the benevolent, or malevolent forces of the universe, I couldn't say. I thought of a topic: the black-and-white perception of good and evil, and the foolishness of it all. Then I unleashed my heart, letting it write its own hoard of sentiments. No intellectualization, no trying to connect with the audience. Let the words write themselves, let the words rhyme themselves, let the syllables arrange themselves in whatever meter they want. Within a day, it completed itself.

The poem had already gone through our workshop in class, and though a lot of my classmates liked it, I feel they only liked it because they are not very widely read, and that this was the first time they encountered this style. Some of my classmates' comments confirm this. But for the rest of the class, who have read quite a lot of poetry before, that includes the professor, they said they didn't feel like they were reading anything new. For either side, however, I felt that the deep, instinctive yet intellectual elements of the poem were lost on them.

Needless to say, my poem got decapitated for all its faults. I sat there and watched as sharks, frenzied with the slightest hints of blood, tore apart my creation - my baby.

And, looking back, I guess I was trying to write more of a short story than a poem. And I do acknowledge all the shortcomings of my creation. But the way that the words rhymed! The way that the poem makes the reader recite itself! And the images! I just can't dismiss them. I don't care if the trochaic rhythm signals the reader not to take the poem seriously (I didn't even know I was using the trochaic scheme!). I don't care that the images are too cliche (They were meant to be cliche! To be shattered at the end!). The poem has had an effect on me. And, though I wish to move on to creating something the genius of which would not be lost on its readers, this particular poem still captivates me. It had sown seeds in me. What these seeds shall grow into, I don't know. But I can feel them ... creeping, creeping ...

The Vampire Hunter by Andre’ Betita

T’was long ago, in a town, the name of which has been forgot
'Round one October or November, Terror was begot

Rumors had been on the spin of cattle going missing,
Of children being killed and taken in the darkness of the evening

Infernal howling kept the people all awake with fright
And even for the few who slept, dreams were mares of night

And more and more, people were reporting of some sighting
Of a cloaked and hooded man who, in the nights, was creeping

Creeping, creeping, always creeping, who was he they did not know
They found themselves, though, all agreeing this man had to go

Then came the call from Town hall, a statement by the Mayor
“The undead is causing dread! (at least so says the rumor)”

This set the stage for the rage of desperate people calling
For somebody, anybody, any hero heeding

Lo and behold, a Hunter, bold, seeking an adventure
Stepped up to meet the challenge and sought to kill the creature

So fearless Mister Vampire Hunter went to town one day
Looking for that beast of lore: the Vampire he must slay

He came to town with his tools: a special poison dagger,
A pistol made for killing ghouls with bullets made of silver

For the night he waited and waited, waited, waited and
Kept a sharp lookout for that savage ghastly beast of lore

Night fell at last, though it was starless, Hunter hunted still regardless
With only the red moon’s light, red moonlight as his guide

Trees gone leafless, branches swaying, monstrous fingers all beckoning
Fingers that seemed to summon the cloaked, hooded, creeping demon

For Hunter now, by the moonlight, Hunter now beheld the sight
Of a cloaked and hooded figure creeping like some cursed creature

Creeping, creeping in the farms, not yet causing any harm
Creeping, creeping ‘round the barns, not yet causing any harm

Not yet causing any harm

Watching from the darkness, Hunter, slipped and slid and stalked the creature
Waiting for a sign of sin to betray the thirst within

Until at last, then it happened, with a creepy grace of movement,
The creature mauled and killed a hen, picked the dead thing up and then,

Looked 'round to see if someone saw him, though the Hunter he missed seeing.
And with what seemed demonic speed, off to darkness went the fiend

Hunter quickly followed suit, stealthy though was the pursuit
And yet one thing made him wonder, there was something quite a bother

Why not feed right away? The easier to catch more prey
To what else was it taking, single helpless little Chicken?

The creature had not seen it coming, Hunter running right behind him
Dagger flashing, he was slashing. The creature hit the floor

And by the reddish moonlight, Hunter, saw the face of the creature
T’was a thing of ghastly horror, a mix of wounded flesh and bone

Of wounded, rotting flesh and bone

“This must be the face, oh surely, of undeath, so otherworldly!”
To himself went to explain he, Hunter did so certainly

Seeing lapse with the attack, the creature quickly creeping back,
Went and, without second thought, took the chance to flee

Hunter picked up pace and thought the creature’s efforts all for naught
The potent poison from the dagger flowed within the cursed creature

Not only would it slow him down, it could itself save the town
And drain the creature’s life away, not that it's needed anyway

Hunter, stalking once again, chased the creature to its den
He watched it enter and take shelter in a cave at town’s end

He heard it talking, giving warning, desperate voice echoing
As he expected, there were others, the creature would have fed

He listened in, what was it saying? And with whom was it talking?
It mattered not, so he thought, for now he found what he had sought

Inside the cave, the wounded man, was doing everything he can
With each and every dying breath, to get his kin away from death

His wife was there, expression bare, terror in her stare
And his two sons, his precious ones, for whom he truly cared

“Come, my love! Let us flee! The town has sent someone!
Oh, come my children! We must flee from that man who had come!”

No sooner had he finished talking than the Hunter, gently aiming
His revolver, pulled the trigger, going for the head

Body falling, sight was fading, blood was spilling, Death was winning
Kids were crying, Daddy’s dying, a silver bullet in his head

A silver bullet in his head!

It wasn’t long before the Hunter, coming to check the cadaver,
Heard the sobs and cries and whimper, of the sons and of the mother

Red moonlight shining on their faces, he saw they had wounds in places
Demon-spawned little wretches! The phenomenon amazes!

And as the kids and mother, stared back at him with horror,
He looked down at them, decided then, the bloodline had to end

T’was long ago, in a town the name of which has been forgot
'Round one October or November Terror was begot