Definition from Oxford Research Encyclopedias:
Southern Gothic is a mode or genre prevalent in literature from the early 19th century to this day. Characteristics of Southern Gothic include the presence of irrational, horrific, and transgressive thoughts, desires, and impulses; grotesque characters; dark humor, and an overall angst-ridden sense of alienation.
My interest in the genre of southern gothic began in 2013 when I visited the southern states of America on a month-long solo road trip from Nashville to New Orleans. I had a very strange experience on a beautiful day at a cemetery near the banks of the dammed Kentucky Lake between Nashville and Memphis.
In retrospect the scene had all the hallmarks of a classic gothic horror story. Beautiful autumn weather, a dammed lake covering a lost subterranean world, a serene peaceful setting in a small cemetery with a pretty red roofed chapel, and a lonesome solo traveller far from home in country he didn’t know. You can read more about what happened on that day here.
That was the start of my interest in southern gothic and it has never really waned. I’m instantly transferred to that world with its places and it’s characters whenever I hear musicians play such as Hannah Aldridge from Muscle Shoals, Alabama and Rebecca Riedtmann from the UK.
On the same journey back in 2013, images and words soon started to feature in some of my photographs and poems.
Here are a couple of images (and accompanying words), that were taken in a town called Helena which is in Arkansas just across a bridge over the river Mississippi from Clarksdale. It’s fair to say that Helena is a faded beauty of a town that once prospered from the trade that ran up and down the mighty Mississippi, and it is the home of the annual King Biscuit Blues festival, which was the reason for my visit in October 2013. Clarksdale is obviously famous for its connection with Robert Johnson, the great blues player who, as the tale goes, sold his soul to the devil at the crossroads in return for his instant blues guitar licks. How southern gothic can you get?
Resurrection
The bin that contains you all
A monster of parts
Gleaned from the souls
That pour out their hearts
Please fix this
Please make me better
Add and subtract
Fill up the dumpster
A patchwork beauty awakens
Sees her reflection in golden mirrors
She's worth a million dollars
And walks tall among her donors
Vacancies……. always
Report to the office
It may be manned
We may be closed
Nothing is planned
Fruit and sweets are there to treat you
Flowers on your bed
These days the air is damp here
Most residents are dead.
Whispers from the Street
Watching from the window
You stare
Blindness behind your eyes
Nothing moves you
Not even time
She waits.
Whispers appear making songs
Songs get sung
Then disappear
As days waste away like milk