class=""> Halloween Poems

When reciting these poems we suggest that you gather in small groups and turn the lights down low - or even better switch them off altogether! Then simply gather round a candle (please ensure you take necessary precautions as open flames are, of course, a fire hazard) and begin your Halloween poetry reading in a low voice. You'' be surprised at how, given the right setting and mood, these poems will chill your audience and have them looking nervously over their shoulders!

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The first of our Halloween poems was written by Richard Jones in 1999. It appeared in his book "Haunted Britain and Ireland."

THE HAUNTING

BY RICHARD JONES.

In screaming woods and empty rooms

or gloomy vaults and sunken tombs;

where monks and nuns in dust decay,

and shadows dance at close of day.

Where the bat dips on the wing

and spectral choirs on breezes sing;

where swords of ancient battles clash

and shimmering shades for freedom dash

Where silver webs of spiders weave

and blighted lovers take their leave;

where curses lay the spirits low

and mortal footsteps fear to go.

Where death holds life in grim embrace

its line’s etched on the sinners face;

where e’er the march of time is flaunted

Voices cry - “this place is haunted”.

Richard Jones

The above poem is the copyright of Richard Jones and may not be reproduced without his express permission in writing.

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Longfellow's poetical collection The Courtship of Miles Standish and other Poems was published in 1858 and became an immediate bestseller selling 10,000 copies in London on its first day! Haunted Houses was part of that collection and has since been featured as a preface or frontpiece in numerous books on ghosts and hauntings. Longfellow has enjoyed a resurgence in popularity in recent years and this poem has a particular  appeal around Halloween time with its vivid images and almost melodic beat. It place is well and truly assured in any definitive collection of Halloween Poems.
 

HAUNTED HOUSES

All houses wherein men have lived and died

Are haunted houses. Through the open doors

The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,

With feet that make no sound upon the floors.

We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,

Along the passages they come and go,

Impalpable impressions on the air,

A sense of something moving to and fro.

There are more guests at table than the hosts

Invited ; the illuminated hall

Is thronged with quiet, inoffensive ghosts,

As silent as the pictures on the wall.

The stranger at my fireside cannot see

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear;

He but perceives what is; while unto me

All that has been is visible and clear.

We have no title-deeds to house or lands;

Owners and occupants of earlier dates

From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,

and hold in mortmain still their old estates.

The spirit-world around this world of sense

Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere

Wafts through these earthly mists and vapours dense

A vital breath of more ethereal air.

Our little lives are kept in equipoise

By opposite attractions and desires;

The struggle of the instinct that enjoys,

And the more noble instinct that aspires.

These perturbations, this perpetual jar

Of earthly wants and aspirations high,

Come from the influence of an unseen star,

And undiscovered planet in our sky.

And as the moon from some dark gate of cloud

Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light

Across whose trembling planks our fancies crowd,

Into the real of mystery and night, -

So from the world of spirits there descends

A bridge of light, connecting it with this,

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends,

Wander our thoughts across the dark abyss.

Haunted Houses

By Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. (1807-1882)

Although Wilfred Owen didn't intend his poem Shadwell Stair  to be a literal story about a ghost wandering the East End of London  - the poem is more about the poet seeking someone to spend the night with in London's docks and its psychological undertones are best explored elsewhere  - there is no doubt that the poem has an eerie quality about it and as such it makes for a great Halloween poem.

SHADWELL STAIR

I am the ghost of Shadwell stair.

Along the wharves by the water-house,

And through the dripping slaughter-house,

I am the shadow that walks there.

Yet I have flesh both firm and cool,

And eyes tumultuous as the gems

Of moons and lamps in the lapping Thames

When dusk sails wavering down the pool.

Shuddering the purple street-arc burns

Where I watch, always, from the banks

Dolorously the shipping clanks,

And after me a strange tide turns.

I walk till the stars of London wane

And dawn creeps up the Shadwell Stair.

But when the crowing syrens blare

I with another ghost am lain.

Shadwell Stair

By Wilfred Owen.

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Richard Harris Barham was the author of The Ingoldsby Legends. His place in our selection of Halloween Poems is assured by this excerpt from his long narrative poem The Hand of Glory a true masterpiece of the macabre genre.

THE HAND OF GLORY

On the lone bleak moor,   At the midnight hour,

Beneath the Gallows Tree,

Hand in hand      The Murderers stand,

By one, by two, or three!

And the Moon that night          With a grey, cold light

Each baleful object tips;

One half of her form        Is seen through the storm,

The other half's hid in Eclipse!

And the cold wind howls,    And the Thunder growls,

And the Lightning is broad and bright;

And altogether         It's very bad weather,

And an unpleasant sort of a night!

From The Hand Of Glory

By R.H.Barham

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Edgar Allan Poe's poetry can make for a really creepy read when recited in the dark by the light of a flickering candle.

THE HAUNTED PALACE

And travellers now, within that valley

Through the red-litten windows see

Vast forms, that move fantastically

To a discordant melody,

While, like a ghastly rapid river,

Through the pale door

A hideous throng rush out forever

And laugh - but smile no more.

From The Haunted Palace.

By Edgar Allan Poe.

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In our next Halloween Poem, House with No Windows, Richard Jones imagines a trapped spirit haunting a single room in a house and imagines it whispering to the living occupants.

HOUSE WITH NO WINDOWS

I live in a house with no windows.

A black curtain hangs on my door.

The voices of conscience torment me.

I live in a room with no floor.

There’s dirt in the corner I can’t see.

There’s water that runs down the wall.

There’re mice in the attic above me,

And rats playing games in the hall.

I live in a house with no windows

And sleep in a room with no heat.

The darkness of life that surrounds me

Keeps out the sounds of the street.

I wake when the shadows have fallen

And walk when the memories cease.

When purpose in life has no meaning

And only the wicked find peace.

Each night you sense that I'm by you

and you feel my breath as you sleep

It's me you keep thinking you're seeing

as out from the shadows I creep

I live in a room with no windows

I live in a house that’s now yours

It’s my voice you think that you’re hearing,

for I died in this room with no doors.

House With No Windows

By Richard Jones

The above poem is the copyright of Richard Jones and may not be reproduced without his express permission in writing.

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The following Halloween poem by Thomas Hardy has a melancholic feel and ambience about it. It makes a perfect mood setter for Halloween.

THE DARKLING THRUSH

The land's sharp features seemed to be

The Century's corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

The wind his death lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

Seemed fervourless as I.

From The Darkling Thrush

By Thomas Hardy.

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Recited in a deep, sombre voice this excerpt from the works of John Dryden makes a chilling Halloween poem to recite by the light of a lone candle.

OEDIPUS

O 'tis a fearful thing to be no more;

Or if to be, to wander after death;

To walk as Spirits do, in Brakes all day;

And when the darkness comes

to glide in paths

That lead to graves: and in the silent Vault,

Where lyes your own pale shrowd,

to hover o'er it,

Striving to enter your forbidden Corps;

And often, often, vainly breathe your Ghost

Into your lifeless lips.

From Oedipus

By John Dryden and Nathaniel Lee.

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Another poem by Edgar Allan Poe to chill the blood and send shivers down the spine.

SPIRITS OF THE DEAD

Thy soul shall find itself alone

‘Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone -

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude

Which is not loneliness, for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

In life before thee are again

In death around thee, and their will

Shall overshadow thee: be still.

From Spirits of the Dead.

By Edgar Allan Poe.

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George Crabbe's sinister poem is best read aloud as the wind whistles around the windows, rattling the panes and shaking the house to its very foundations. Recited in a low voice which grows steadily louder this can really hold your audiences attention.

THE LADY OF THE MANOR

Next died the Lady who yon Hall possessed;

And here they brought her noble bones to rest.

In Town she dwelt:- forsaken stood the Hall:

Worms ate the floors. the tapestry fled the wall.

No fire the kitchens cheerless grate displayed;

No cheerful light the long-closed sash conveyed;

The crawling worm, that turns a summer-fly,

Here spun his shroud and laid him up to die

The winter-death:- upon the bed of sate,

The bat shrill-shrieking wooed his flickering mate;

To empty rooms the curious came no more,

From empty cellars turned the angry poor,

And surly beggars cursed the ever-bolted door.

From The Lady of the Manor

By George Crabbe (1754-1832)

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Thomas Hood's classic The Haunted House is another mood setting poem that fits neatly in to Halloween celebrations. You can almost feel the metallic creak of the gates and sense the foreboding atmosphere of whatever haunted house he had in mind.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

Unhinged, the iron gates half-open hung,

Jarred by the gusty gales of many winters,

That from its crumbled pedestal had flung

One marble globe in splinters.

The wood-louse dropped, and rolled into a ball,

Touched by some impulse, occult or mechanic;

And nameless beetles ran along the wall

In universal panic.

The subtle spider, that from overhead

Hung like a spy on human guilt and error

Suddenly turn'd, and up it's slender thread

Ran with a nimble terror.

O'er all there hung the shadow of a fear;

A sense of mystery the spirit daunted;

And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,

The place is haunted.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE

BY THOMAS HOOD.

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Of course no collection of Halloween Poems would be complete without a tale about a witch. Robert Herrick's The Hag is brimming with atmosphere and will get you and your guests into a true story-telling Halloween mood.

THE HAG

The hag is astride
This night for to ride,
The devil and she together;
Through thick and through thin,
Now out and then in,
Though ne'er so foul be the weather.

A thorn or a burr
She takes for a spur,
With a lash of a bramble she rides now;
Through brakes and through briars,
O'er ditches and mires,
She follows the spirit that guides now.

No beast for his food
Dare now range the wood,
But hush'd in his lair he lies lurking;
While mischiefs, by these,
On land and on seas,
At noon of night are a-working.

The storm will arise
And trouble the skies;
This night, and more for the wonder,
The ghost from the tomb
Affrighted shall come,
Call'd out by the clap of the thunder.

The Hag

By Robert Herrick.

FROM HAUNTED BRITAIN AND IRELAND BY RICHARD JONES.

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