A Dedication to Emilie Autumn’s ‘The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls’

After reading Emilie Autumn’s semi-autobiography The Asylum for Wayward Victorian Girls which by the way I highly recommend although it is not easy to get hold of a copy. I thought I would post this poem which I wrote back in 2009 because it strongly relates to a poignant point Emilie makes. For those of you who have a copy of the book then the page that I am particularly referring to is 220. I hope you enjoy the poem.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Psychology: If it’s so popular they why the stigma?
Mental Illness affects one in four people: Fact
.
You demonised me into being victim
Like I chose that- are you sick?
Just because the fromage I wouldn’t lick
And wanted to resemble a stick

Or to be violently sick
Left alone to be depressed
Though I had nothing to confess
Suicidal thoughts I caressed

All these years attempting to express how I feel
Shut down and shut up every time, by you
I would have told you till I was blue
In face if I thought you’d have listened

People, unlike you did listen
And act, support, didn’t “shut up”
I talked freely, drinking coffee,
With bars, on the window
I owe them my life.
The ability to laugh and not care
What anyone else may think
To be drunk and to be aware,
Emotion doesn’t mean, you need to see a shrink
It means you are alive, and living,
Interacting with everything around you

A slave, subjected to emotion
A victim of expression
Terrified of my reflection
Surrounded by oppression

I was sick.

All negative blood tests
That is always best.

Can’t see anything wrong
Just “come back if symptoms persist”.
Was ten years too long?
Were you waiting for rig-amortise?

In body, physically a child
In mind, psychologically a child
Listen to Blake as he whispers, Innocence
Epitomising youth in his assonance

Dry cries for help
Invaded 1999 to 2009
All without tears
Just pure anger and fears

I owe you my existence
My life belongs to me
Sick of submission
And a victim of emotion

Jenna Grabey © 2009

The image above is taken from the book. I do not own any rights over it only what is written above.

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The Tale of Constance ~ A Broken Ballard

 

In the depths of the misty moor
Stands a castle from ancient lore
Shrouded by the tangible night
Stars hang emitting crystal light

Barn owls chase shrews and mice to kill
Across the rolling Exmoor hills
The castle built from local stone
Is enchanted with the winds’ moan

This castle has no space for time
It’s the elements greatest crime
Centuries pass all unknown
Yet see how the ivy has grown

Laying on the dungeons cold floor
A girl holds no key for the door
Thrown in there by her misery
Now she’ll cry till she finds the key

History of blood and bandages
Haunt her dreams at the fringes
In the tower a prince is found
Loneliness is what keeps him bound

To the castle, to the tower
Every single hour, tastes sour
His past wisps like the dusty wind
What he did – could it be a sin?

Constance knows the prince will save her
From the fearsome dragon, he’ll lure
The beast away, break the bars
And take her to see the stars

As hills become veiled in darkness,
Alluring music is played
On a grand piano by the prince,
This keeps the princess hoping

Every note played silences the pain from the chains
Which bind her wrists and fists
They are manacles for imprisonment,
The lock, a gaping hole, there lies

A fire, restricted, silenced
Chains of spears burn through her thoughts
Dissolution runs through her veins
Her logic has crumbled and cracked 

With the rising of many suns
She hears him on the cobbled steps
She weeps, must have slain the dragon.
Infatuation at first sight

Their bourbon eyes interlock
Transfixed.
Forgetting time, in time
Biting her lip she smiles

He breaks the bars, but he does not
Take her to see the stars
She sees the verity before her
A chilling beautiful monster

No eyes does his face hold
Or anything she ever knew
Just a frozen heart with ivory fangs
And a lurid face torn apart

She sees the awful reality
And hears the testing truth
Never again will she be chained
And never again she be pained

Her silk screams are in unison
Echoing from the high tower
The monster crying in the night
Finishes her off in a fright

Beating her to her bones
Till she falls with a thud
He wants to shred her more
But only to see more blood

Her skeleton, abandoned
On the floor that now wears her flesh
And death she now wears
As if in blessed matrimony

Constance died of a broken heart
Her melancholia is always
In the castle, every hour.
While that miscreant of Mother Nature

Winds along the dusty tunnel,
His thoughts flicker back to Constance
And his eyes turn misty in a howl,
For she is now an angels’ hymn

 

Jenna Grabey © 2011. All Rights Reserved.

 

the_tower_by_feral_dragon_art-d56xz0v

Mistletoe

Ice and snow cover the Earth,
Nature says, ‘stay at home
By the fire of the hearth
Now is not the time to roam.’

So on this frosty Yuletide eve,
We burn the Cailleach Nollaig*
And song and laughter we weave
In the light of the Christmas Hag.

We feast and drink sweet mead,
As we relish on the sacrificed Earth
Whose now in death but we know will seed
Once awakened into rebirth.

Under Druid blessed mistletoe
We kiss as the Sun begins to grow,
Because on the deepest, darkest night
We celebrate the rebirth of light!

*The burning of the Cailleach was the ceremonial burning of the Winter Solstice. A piece of wood was carved roughly into the shape of an Old Crone to represent the Spirit of Winter. This was then placed into a fire to burn. As people gathered to watch they would be mindful of the symbolism, that was the ending of all the bad things that had happened the previous year and a fresh start for the next one. “Nollaig” in Scottish is used to refer to Christmas. In Irish it means “December”. “Cailleach” refers to the prototypical Crone figure and thus the old wise woman in Gaelic.

Bittersweet Madness

Bittersweet Madness

The dawn of the dark moon
Brings a bittersweet madness soon
Vampires screech and wolves howl
The scent coming from the cemetery is foul
The atmosphere is cold
And the night is bold
As bats whistle through night air
And immortals dance without a care
Their white skin sun hasn’t glanced upon
For centuries as they’ve listened to the nights’ song
And their cry for death encased in a howl
As they wander through forests having to prowl
Stars glisten in all their eyes
Which hold countless memories from the sky
And now sweet blood is drained
From the mortals, oh so afraid
The dawn of the hideous sun
Brings this bittersweet madness to an end
Vampires screech and wolfs howl
The scent coming from the cemetery is foul

© Jenna Grabey 2005. All Rights Reserved.

The Tale of Constance – A Broken Ballard

The Tale of Constance

In the depths of the misty moor
Stands a castle from ancient lore
Shrouded by the tangible night
Stars hang emitting crystal light

Barn owls chase shrews and mice to kill
Across the rolling Exmoor hills
The castle built from local stone
Is enchanted with the winds’ moan

This castle has no space for time
Is the elements greatest crime
Centuries pass all unknown
Yet see how the ivy has grown

Laying on the dungeons cold floor
A girl holds no key for the door
Thrown in there by her misery
Now she’ll cry till she finds the key

History of blood and bandages
Haunt her on her dream’s fringes.
In the tower a prince is found
Loneliness is what keeps him bound

To the castle, to the tower-
Every single hour, tastes sour
His past wisps like the dusty wind
What he did- could it be a sin?

For she knows the prince will save her
From the fearsome dragon, he’ll lure
The beast away, break the bars
And take her to see the stars

Hills become veiled in darkness,
With alluring music playing
From the prince the involved witness,
The songs keep the princess hoping

Silencing the pain from the chains
That bind her wrists and fists
Manacles for imprisonment
The lock, a gaping hole there lies

A fire, restricted, silenced
Chains of spears burn through her thoughts
Dissolution runs through her veins
Her logic has crumbled and cracked

To be continued …

© Jenna Leanne Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Lockerbie

Think about the innocent and Lockerbie

Bathing like Elizabeth Bathory
Or washing your hands like Lady MacBeth
Recall the innocents in Lockerbie
You may as well have taken Crystal-meth

Still be damaging to those around you
Apart from the members in the party
Because you are all the same shade of blue
Smoking contemporary politics how arty

You didn’t have a clue
It was an accident
Too late the party flew
And caused another dent

Intention was the same
But more were meant to-do
And not to be left lame
With the party you slew

Until all viscera were in two
Still you’re all the same damn shade of blue
And you still caused damn burning murder
As the party intended to do

© Jenna Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Narrative Poetry

The Tale of Constace
© Jenna Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

The Tale of Constance
An Extract

[…]

In the tower
A Prince resides
The one that will save her
To rectify his sins.
The voracious dragon will be defeated
Its fire crumbling at his shield
Then the princess will see stars
That break the bars of time.
… Restricted
… Silenced
Flashes of hope dash through her veins and thoughts
She does not know that her logic has
crumb-
led and
cracked
She
hears
him
on
cobb-
led
steps
Their bourbon eyes interlock
Infatuation
At first sight.

[…]

© Jenna Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.

 

Emilie Autumn – Live Review

Emilie Autumn’s show wows at the Marlboro

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Thursday, October 16, 2008

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Emilie Autumn

Marlboro Club, Ilfracombe

  1. <P>Emilie Autumn</P>

    Emilie Autumn

     

Review by Jenna Grabey

SLOWLY but surely the black curtain began to flicker, and in a flash behind a translucent screen a tall figure holding a pirate sword moved in time to the dramatic music, then stepped down and acknowledged the crowd.

One by one, the other Bloody Crumpets dressed in various corsets, long and short tattered skirts and stripy suspenders, created a mesmerising silhouette behind the screen, adding something quite new to the world of burlesque.

Emilie Autumn then joined the Bloody Crumpets on stage who were all moving like wonderland puppets, each with their individual character. Straight away we knew we were in for a fantastic night.

The Victorian Burlesque band created this gothic circus filled with violin shredding, and classical music pin-pricked with the sound of metal and the essence of distortion, now known as VictorianIndustrial.

We knew we had arrived at the circus when one of the crumpets walked in on stilts, so high that she could not stand up straight! This was neatly sliced with the band talking with the audience.

After the band had said ‘thank-you’ and their good-byes the crowd screamed for more. To everyone’s delight they came back on stage – they not only performed one more song but three.

I can say that they are amazing performers as well as musicians.

Corset Sword

The Corset Sword

Blood breathes in an ancient bowl
Jewels are tossed with a splash
Rings form and grow reaching out to the soul
Outside winter winds sing their cry and dash.

Around the bowl candles burn at ease
To the left lays a corset
And to the right a sword
While above a caged dove sings.

And so which do I, will I, am I to love?
The question met with malicious silence.
By the ceasing of music from the trapped dove
Thus in C minor the orchestra commence.

This fills the air with ubiquitous passions
And depressions, in a dolorous harmony
A manner that allows no illusion
Anticipating the great epiphany.

The blood trembles at the orchestral sound
And the cage shatters and feathers scatter
Flying high beyond the notes the dove is unbound
And swoops down to grasp the hilt.

The corset burns as the candles tip
And into E flat major the orchestra slip
The dove unclasps the blade; it plummets into the bowl
And dissolves as the answers evolve.

The dove fades into the winter wind
And with this the orchestra silence
Realising what is now to be a personal oath
So for this life which am I to love, well both.

© Jenna Leanne Grabey 2012. All Rights Reserved.