Frankenstein Poems by Molly Vogel

C E N T O

O R
T H E F O R E T H I N K E R


Whether with particles of Heav’nly Fire
The God of Nature did his Soul Inspire,
Or Earth, but new divided from Skie,
And, pliant, still retain’d the Æthereal Energy:
Which Wise Prometheus temper’d into paste,
And mixt with living Streams, the Godlike Image cast. […]
From such rude Principles our Form began;
And Earth was Metamorphos’d into Man.
METAMORPHOSES, I

 


VOL. I.                                 FROM THE LETTERS OF R. WALTON

I lived in a Paradise of my own creation;
I preferred glory to every enticement,
And, having once turned round, walk on – a friend
fixed as fate. Though I go to unexplored regions,
I will kill no albatross for gain. Yet one man’s life
or death are the price to pay for knowledge.
We are unfashioned creatures, says the Stranger.
Do not lend his aid to perfectionate our weak and faulty natures.
But his clearness and precision! His intuitive discernment!
A penetration into the cause of things is the sting of a serpent.

 


VOL. II.                                 FROM THE ACCOUNTS OF V. FRANKENSTEIN


Alas! Why does man boast of sensibilities;
If our impulses were confined, we might be nearly free;
But now we are moved by every wind,
A chance word or scene. Nought may endure
But Mutability. How dare you sport with life, says the Creature.
My vices are the children of forced solitude.
My virtues will arise in an equal.
Oh! stars and clouds and wind, ye mock me.
If ye pity me, crush sensation and memory; let me
become as nought, but if not, depart, depart.

 

VOL. III.                              FROM THE TALES OF THE CREATURE


I crept along, among willow islands,
The heaths of England, the deserts of Scotland.
Shall I set loose upon the earth a daemon?
I will be with you on your wedding-night.
Unborrow’d from the eye, the cataract haunted
Like a passion. I am the assassin of innocent victims;
They died by my machinations. My spirit will sleep
In peace; or if it thinks, it will not surely think
Thus, I am alone. I shall collect my funeral pile;
That to any victor, its light may afford no light awhile.

 

Molly Vogel portrait small
Molly Vogel is a poet from Thousand Oaks, California. She recently received a New Writers Award from the Scottish Book Trust and was shortlisted for the Edwin Morgan Poetry Award in 2014. A selection of her work has been published in Carcanet's New Poetries VI and she recently completed a PhD in Creative Writing at the University of Glasgow. 

 

Landscape image by Skeeze on Pixabay