Danse Macabre XXIX
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DM 21 Christmas in January
DM 22 Frühlingsstimmen
DM 23 Une Nuit à l'Opéra
DM 24 Hauptfriedhof
DM 25 Symphonie Fantastique
DM 26 Stonewall
DM 27 Totentanze
DM 28 All Saints' Evening

 

Issue XXIV

 

 Hauptfriedhof 

 

 

featuring works by

 
 
 
 
Willkommen zu Hauptfriedhof, our twenty-fourth buffet of coloratura letters.
 
Here you will find not only the livliest of new fiction and poetry on the literary web, but rare gems unearthed from bookish landscapes past. We are home to narrative voices of every contour, representing swaths of inspiration from across North America and Europe. Whether dedicated ingenues or seasoned salty dogs, students or professors, urbanites or small town folk, editors or homemakers, the young and the restless or retirees, or just plain troublemakers who can type, Hauptfriedhof proudly presents their ink energy for your reading pleasures.
 
Why do images and themes of Death so fire our inner imaginations? Is it because we are utterly unique among Earth's inhabitants, full in the knowledge that we are... temporary? Virtually all our various social and cultural constructs navigate this knowledge, as do the vast pillars of our religious and/or metaphysical selves. In acknowledging the unavoidable terminus of the mortal coil, we also imbue the hereafter with a potential 'life' - whose definitional absence of terminus teems with such suggestive  power, it often seems only art can give temporary refuge for our attendant disquiet.
 
However immodestly or inadvertently, Hauptfriedhof at least sincerely aims toward speaking to that refuge, across the lively shadows of what ultimately lies ahead.
            
Sincèrement,
 
Adam Henry Carrière
éditeur,
An Online Literary Magazine™ 
 
 

 A Winter Dusk

 

A deep blue cowl folds across the westward horizon,

rests against earth, waits.

Cloaked shoulders, even darker, rise.

Soon, a gown jewels beneath, pierces through

the blackened weave of cowl and cloak.

 

Moments pass, the fabric unfurls.

 

More points glimmer, more than can be counted.

Wisps of white night-hair

fall haphazardly out, thread across

that great lonely pearl – clasp of night –

float amid the gather of silence.

 

Time bends with the motion.

 

No birds sing during this stretched hour.

Branches whisper only,

their shadows, fading, turn, bow, kneel

then stare up from earth, patient as Zen monks,

until cowl and cape finally fall across

 

and fade horizon’s spine.

 

Susan Botich

 

 

 

 The Waste Land

T.S. Eliot

 

 

♦

♠   Danse Macabre   ♣

An Online Literary Magazine™  

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Hauptfriedhof

Volume Four, Number Four

Copyright © MMVI-MMIX

by

Adam Henry Carrière / Stonesthrow Publishing LLC.

All Rights Reserved.

ISSN pending.