Devil Bird of Dunne County: Narrative Verse

By Simon Pole

In the backwoods, a mysterious egg appears—is this the return of primeval threats long past? Trapped on a bizarre, living world, an astronaut unearths atrocities of the worst kind, but also rebirth. A humble shopkeeper, relying on his own shrewd wit, must defeat a satanic challenge to his life's work. And at bitter crossroads, a weary couple wonders: is the bill for their unholy spree now due?

All this, along with zombie fighters, and obscene basement gods can be found in Devil Bird of Dunne County, the latest compendium of narrative verse from cosmic poet Simon Pole. Simon is the author of two previous volumes of narrative poetry, and the epic verse novel series, The Saga of Terminal City.

Allow your mind to visit such unexpected vistas as these, and forever carry with you their influence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Simon Pole
• Release date: Aug 29, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005588502

Simon Pole

His mind corrupted by childhood exposure to horror movie matinees, but equally enthralled by the atmosphere of old churches, Simon Pole writes cosmic poetry from the location of Kingsville, Ontario. A graduate of Harvard University, Simon has continued his studies of what is hidden in the dark. Writing is also in his blood, being the great-great-grandson of early Canadian poet Susie Drury.

Book preview

Devil Bird of Dunne County

Narrative Verse

Simon Pole

www.simonpole.ca

Text copyright 2022 Simon Pole

All Rights Reserved

No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of Simon Pole.

Cover Photo Original Public Domain

Table of Contents

Devil Bird of Dunne County

At The Brink of the End of the World

The Planet’s Tale

Halls of Hate

The Evil Eaton

Port of Souls

About the Author

Devil Bird of Dunne County

I.

From an egg Gilbert raised the strange creature,

An egg most odd, of archaic feature,

One laid in a coop by everyday hens,

Yet such was its contour, beyond the ken

Of local farm-boys they brought it toute suite

To Gilbert’s study, and there with gas heat,

Among the beakers and scalpels and books,

And specimens stuffed in glass-fronted nooks,

Was it incubated, kept from the cold,

Infection and mouse, or sinister moulds

Which here on the farm blight bull, cow and crop,

And even young Gilbert struggled to stop

With all of his learning, acquired abroad

In colleges old where scholars have trod.

His fam’ly was rich, as pioneers go,

From lumber hewed down and up-river towed,

And now that the fields were settled and tame,

From work they retired to rest on their fame,

And Gilbert to read, to poke and to prod

The wonders produced by his native sod.

II.

The egg he beheld, and caressed his chin,

What are you, he thought, "we’re all wonderin’.

From what place you come, what distant time past

Bequeaths us your shell, the yolk hereby cast

Upon our good grace to hatch and to rear

Whatever ye be, though somewhat I fear

An advent obscure betokens bad fate,

Which no faith or science can help abate;

No matter that, forsooth I proceed

To coddle you close, and motherly feed

Whatever comes forth when outer rinds crack,

Even if its people on which you snack.

God blast me, I’ve said it, that’s what I am,

A servant to knowledge, all else be damned,

And this backward patch of rubes and the dumb,

A realm rich in research which I can plumb

For nuggets of insight, when publish I

To me praise will flow from eminents high,

Accolades sweet whose near presence I lost

When back to this wasteland fortune me tossed."

III.

At that instant then when smoked cold the night,

And wavered, draft-blown, the single wax light

That burnt at the church, where worked late the priest

On this evening of the midwinter feast

Which kindles good hearts amid so much drear,

Diffusing afar the cup of good cheer,

There rustled a sound, or was it a thought

That just beyond reach an inkling he caught,

The earnest young man, who silence well knew

For out of the hush he sustenance drew;

But something had changed on his rural watch,

Something had entered, a festering notch

Was cut in the skin, that coddling cocoon

Of friendship and kin, their assuaging boon;

And though it began the smallest of ways,

And where it would lead few could surely say

In those early hours, except at a house

Infested with filth, condemned by the louse

To be one apart, where harboured the ilk

Who evil imbibe with their mother’s milk.

IV

A father there was who raised with his fist

A posse of sons, each one of whom missed

Kind words or correction as up they grew,

The mother had fled, him only they knew,

That twisting tyrant who made them to be

A slovenly bunch who stoked enmity

With fist and with curse, and chance robberies

Whenever some loot they happened to see;

Yet such was the state of neighbouring farms,

Who workers wanted, so winked at the harms,

And uneasy shouldered their presence here,

While contracting labour throughout the year.

It was to these blackhearts Gilbert’s thought went,

And to them a message secretly sent,

Along with some coin, that they should take heed,

And quick service render when he had need

Sometime coming soon, until then sit tight,

The summons would come unlooked-for at night,

Or noon, or dim dawn, not yet he could tell

Requirements of what hatched from that shell.

V

In Gilbert’s own house a sister asleep

Lies dreaming in bed, a schoolhouse she keeps

And so slumbers early, rising with dawn

To teach little children stifling their yawns,

Attentive in desk rows, eager to learn,

For something greater their tiny hearts yearn,

As all children feel born into this clay

A story had started and many days

It spun out before them, vast in its scope,

To grasp just a part is more than their hope,

Yet in the classroom new life they apply

To lore handed over, schoolbooks and sky

In depth what they plumb, while with them beside,

Both smiling and stern, the sister their guide.

This sister awakes, and down the cold hall

Hurries to porridge, her brother she calls,

Finds him still pacing, so scheming and shrewd,

Engrossed in the egg, like a plotter crude,

That speechless she stands, aghast in the door,

Then unleashed her tongue for a scolding sore.

VI

"Gilbert my dearest, what is this you do?

Skulking and furtive like someone who knew

Their progress was wrong, these steps that you’ve took,

That outlandish egg you’ve bed in a nook,

It’s something unclean, around it there clings

The lingering whiff of archaic things,

But not wholesome oldness, what’s handed down

Which all men should learn—that’s history’s crown,

Not glowering relics, best left forgot,

Of sinister deeds which bear Satan’s blot.

I count this among them, that heinous shell

Can only be counted offspring of hell,

Conceived with intentions diabolic,

Conserved through an age so it might trick

My little Gillie, who always blushed beet

When mother caught him in theft, lie or cheat.

But now that mama and pa are away

Visiting God’rich, and left us here stay,

In ill-acts you dabble deceitfully,

Oh Gillie, dear Gillie, let bad things be."

VII.

A look of pure venom he flashed her then,

More like a serpent’s than those made by men,

Most certain not siblings, those raised since youth

For loy’lty and love, not bared fang and tooth.

His sister shrank back, named she Rose-Marie,

Known since her girlhood as sweet-cheeked Rosey,

But now wan they shake, as if near a ghost

Had into these halls on chill breezes coast

And roost in her brother, who her regards

At first with disdain