Voices of Salem

Proctor's Ledge Memorial

Image Credit: Salem Witch Museum.

Tituba — The Accused

"The devil came to me and bid me serve him."

My master, Minister Parris, did beat me to confess,
His daughter ill under an 'evil' hand.
Naturally, upon witchcraft was blame cast,
And me—a coloured servant,
A most natural form of witch.

On the other women
Did I spin my tale of evil—
Sarah Good and Goody Osborne
Did I throw into this pit of hell.
My 'confession'—the bars of prison,
My denial—the throes of death.

'Pon my words a madness,
Leaving me within the bars,
No witch of the devil was I,
No dog or rat or pig of evil did I converse with.
My freedom from the bars
In the purchase by another did come.

Bridget Bishop — The Condemned

"I am innocent of a witch."

But easy was I to accuse.

Disliked by Salem,

Mine denial of innocence

Upon guilty-assumed ears did fall.

Years of vilification carried mine cart,

Salem calling for the noose in mine fate.

Strung up in front of hypocrites and liars,

I bid farewell to this earthly coil.

Ann Putnam Jr. — The Innocent Corrupted

Mother and Father—
My tormentors...
Nay, the witches, the witches!
The sickness, the other girls,
The witches.

Mother,
The witches,
'Tis the witches that make me.

Spectator — The Devout Executioner

Would you look at them swing,

Guilt tied neatly with nightshade and fear.

Each drop cleanses us, purifies the town,

The Devil's hand plucked from our midst.

My eyes do not waver, my faith does not bend—

To watch is to believe, to believe is to purge.

Hangman — The Necessary Evil

I am the hand that strings up the wretched,
The line between breath and the stillness of soil.
Do not curse me for my duty;
Would you not say a prayer for the reaper's scythe?

I do not judge; I do not choose—
I am merely the shadow that follows the law.

Proctor's Ledge — The Witness

Roots remember weight, bark whispers names,

I have seen shadows dangle like wind-tossed leaves.

Upon this hill, I cradle secrets—

Heavy feet and final breaths.

The earth does not forget.

I carry them still in my marrow.

Lucifer — The Eternal Scapegoat

How easy it is to bind me to your failings,
To whisper my name when shadows creep.
Your fears become my altar, your lies my creed,
A throne built from trembling hands.

Did I spark the madness in Salem?
Did I fan those flames, not you?

Blame me if you must—
I am the dark cloth that covers your sins,
The myth you created to hide from yourselves.

But I did not light the fires in Salem.
That darkness is yours to bear.

Writer's Note:

Voices of Salem is a poetic exploration of the Salem Witch Trials, weaving together the imagined voices of the accused, the witnesses, and symbolic entities. The poem aims to illuminate the hysteria and scapegoating that marked this tragic historical event. The final voice, written from Lucifer's perspective, serves to critique the happenings. It is not a promotion of dark beliefs but a reflective commentary on humanity's tendency to deflect responsibility for its actions and justify its cruelties. The horrors of Salem were not born of witchcraft but of fear, prejudice, and the desperate need to find an enemy, even if that enemy had to be created.