Return Of The Raven

The infamous return of the raven, who has appeared before "Griswold", to make known of Poe's wretched soul.

Once upon a midnight so ghastly, in the memories too vastly,
I recall the vague fate of this noble poet of the days of yore;
As I was napping, I heard the peculiar flapping, and a tapping
Of a gentle guest rapping, rapping slowly at my chambre door,
I felt a visitor methought, tapping slowly at my chambre door-
Only this and nothing more.

I awoke from my placid slumber that did not once cumber,
A howling wind that had bustl'd with the ominous hour frore,
And this numinous sound that I soon heard raught the ground
Of a fluttering birr then found, behind the hollow walls of lost lore,
As I open'd the door to the ambages of hollow walls of lost lore-
Darkness there, and nothing more.

A noise of the idle stranger-preternatural of imminent danger,
Nigh the daunting corridor of that hoary mansion of the fourscore
Of mortals accurst foreseen, with the tenant'd spectres unseen;
And damn'd are the unforeseen of Abaddon who shall implore.
'Tis the most pitiable place of Abaddon whose voices implore-
Nameless here e'ermore.

"Ludwig!" the whisper of a plaint, within a tone staid and faint,
And the immurement he besought the saintly angels e'ermore.
Poe in the hallway with his unease, bearing his grim surcease,
And the laden sorrow of his decease, I hope to see no more,
Alas, the laden sorrow I remember, as I hope to see no more-
'Tis the wind I thought and nothing more.

The glimpse of that man wearisome and much too wan,
With shabby pantaloons worn with his mien fore'ermore,
Taint'd with a bombazine coat that no poor gent can gloat
Of the horrors that denote, an unsightly bathos heretofore;
That sempiternal gleam of his unsightly bathos heretofore-
A wraith I thought and nothing more.

He tarried for so long to utter-though he yearn'd to mutter,
In the Stygian days of that ineffable abyss, the word Lenore.
The distant damp dew of his graveyard with the select'd few,
Whence his brittle bones stew rotting away with just uproar,"
As his queer voice I hear, from the epitaph of his just uproar-
Only this and nothing more.

Inside my chambre stepp'd a lone raven, for he is no foul craven,
The quaint intrudor who was tapping at my chambre door before,
Staring with the ebony guise of his scarlet eyes of dim disguise,
Perch'd as a stately prize, upon a bust of Pallas above my door-
Perch'd so honourably, upon a bust of Pallas above my door-
Perch'd there, and nothing more.

"Ne'ermore!" spoke this ungainly bird that had thus stirr'd,
The cadent soul's heart of that discourse sinners deplore;
Cursing me as a brazen fiend of avidity, a betrayal wean'd
Of the souls tenfold preen'd, in a hall of oblivion we ignore-
Too barren and unnoticeable, is this oblivion we ignore-
Merely this and nothing more.

"Art thou raven, a prophet or demon, an omen or a beacon?
Henceforth art thou fore'er the sublunary legend of folklore?
Doest thou beguile me with the words of prophecy I must see,
Or must I soon believe thee, and his tristful truth wherefore?
Do the exalt'd immortals redeem, his tristful truth wherefore?
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore."

Taunting with a riddle of sorrow, from night onto the morrow,
That fail'd to sing his dirge and gave him no condign encore,
Until the lofty halls of Elysium had rid him of his cruel delirium,
And bestow'd upon him an equilibrium of rever'd bards galore.
I ponder'd his valediction resplendent of rever'd bards galore-
The raven's wings ruffl'd as he forbore.

"Bird! tell me-tell me of his dirge-hath it been sung yet I urge,
By those divine angels of death who mourn'd the days of yore?
The genuine glory of his wrought quill, the braid'd stanzas of thrill.
Hark! the paean of the loyal will of his sober peers fore'ermore-
Forsooth, that paean of sublimity of his sober peers fore'ermore."
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore."

But the raven e'er unbreakable, spoke with a memory so impeccable,
As if that mere duplicitous word, had haunt'd with malefaction before.
Spreading his wings flying so boldly, upon my silk draperies slowly,
To warn me of that vicissitude unholy that befell upon me e'ermore,
Fraught with a phantom of vicissitude that befell upon me e'ermore-
A whim of death, I breath'd e'en more.


"Avaunt thee-the tempter of nepenthe of Lethe and oenanthe,
For that joyous coming of the morrow shall liberate therefore,
The cenotaph of his insidious solitude and the drear incertitude,
As a door of magnitude shall open to the fain Aidenn of Lenore-"
The chambre door leading a spirit to the fain Aidenn of Lenore-
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore."

Imbued in the quaff of his gloom, tormenting me with dire doom,
Within the ceaseless dread of this horrid phantasmagoria I abhor!
Would I see a following night of mirth, and feast again in this earth,
Or would I fade away in a dearth of a tenebrous night that o'erbore?
I betook myself to a resignation of a tenebrous night that o'erbore-
'Twere the echoes and nothing more.


"Art thou a saintly raven, or art thou a reaper of this maiden?
Tell me please I must know, for I heed the curiosity to explore,
The marvellous mystery that intrigues me to know this history
Of a barmecidal discovery, spiteful naysayers denied as lore-"
Is this an imaginative myth, spiteful naysayers denied as lore?
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore."

But the raven of no soot or grime, did not flinch with a chime
Of those church bells foreboding the paean that shall restore,
The magnanimous vestige that shall uplift his refulgent visage,
Languishing in a grievous presage amid the seraphim ashore;
For I was told of his grievous pall amid the seraphim ashore-
What was meant, by its croak "Ne'ermore?"

"Herald-tempter thee raven, or guardian of this eerie haven,
I sincerely query is it true, amongst the doubters he forswore,
Is there Balm in Gilead, with the winsome maidens of Pleiad?
Shall he dwell with the Pleaid, in the ripples of time herefore?
Fiend-is there respite for me, in the ripples of time herefore?
Quoth the raven "Ne'ermore."

He quitt'd into the cold midnight, as he stood firm and upright,
As the brume of ere had yield'd afterwards onto the seashore.
Into that tempest of the foe, disappear'd the silhouette of Poe,
And the raven flew with piacular woe, beyond a Plutonian shore.
Verily, his sable pinions had flown, beyond a Plutonian shore-
My curse shall be uplift'd-ne'ermore!

Reviews

[GalaxyGhost]

I love this response to the Raven. It is very true to an Edgar Allen Poe style of writing. I love Edgar Allen Poe's writings and his style is quite unique. You have a special way of following in his footstep.

[Franc Rodriguez]

I appreciate the comments, and as a fan of Poe, I relied on his influence, when it came to the poem.