RAVING
Once when I was feeling cheery, I found a poem, bleak and dreary
by a man who died at fortyish, more than a hundred years before.
While I started fairly happy, suddenly I felt real crappy
and soon I got plenty sappy, sappy as his metaphor.
"This is pitiful," I muttered, "to be sappy as a metaphor."
I read this verse, and nothing more:
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door —
Only this, and nothing more."
I see what you are hinting at. Nonetheless, Poe had his brilliance in writing; I was expecting a bit more, to be honest. You did say (in your labels) that it was a satire, yet...you could have played on more...I have noticed that you have quite a taste for satire...
ReplyDeleteRead you soon, as time permits!
Best
Gosh, I'm not sure what I was hinting at. Let me muse a little.
ReplyDeleteI only lampoon those I love, the same way I tease my friends. (Coleridge is next; then Emily.) With most of my light verse, I think I simply enjoy the wordplay as I look for smiles in unlikely places ~ perhaps to avoid my inherent Irish tendency to descend into a maelstrom like Poe. I don't want depth in my refuge from the abyss. I believe Poe would have welcomed some levity. Like my namesake, Van Gogh (and many others), Poe sat precariously on the old fence that separates Genius from Madness. He inevitably fell off toward the far side. I wish I could have been there to make him laugh.