I'm sorry. I'm a little rusty.
A Critical Response to Poe's Most Definitive Work
Are you quite sure that the raven's arrival
was an entire surprise?
I wouldn't be offended if you admitted it --
we all sacrifice honesty for our art,
so it would be quite all right if you were to tell me
that you were expecting The Raven.
In fact, if it was really upon a sunny afternoon,
that would actually be quite nice,
or much more so than "a midnight dreary".
You may have even invited him for lunch,
a detail that might not rhyme very well with "nevermore"
and which I could overlook.
Come now, poetry is often based on truth, experience,
and sometimes it is not. But if this famous piece of yours
stretched the truth so thin that it broke into countless holes,
that would be perfectly acceptable.
One could not persecute you for adding some mystery.
Perhaps your Lenore was an Elizabeth, a Marie, or a Betty.
Perhaps she was in the other room
and as you called to her, you were not mourning her absence,
but asking her where she put your tie or shoes.
Love is not so grand everyday as it is in poetry;
a name, an entire person, could be changed without hesitation.
I hear you have an amazing imagination, Edgar!
I couldn't curse you for it; I see no problem with
stepping upon the reality of things,
detesting the simplicity of the true events in a creative fervor.
It's all right -- I know the raven didn't speak.
Let's not be silly! And I'm sure it flew away
as you moved the curtain, as most birds are quite flighty,
if you understand me. And I'm sure you returned to bed
with your Marie, your Eliza, your what-have-you,
without another thought to that ugly black bird.
Perhaps it wasn't even black, perhaps it was just
a sparrow -- a little brown sparrow on a sunny afternoon,
invited for lunch with you and your wife.
A nervous little sparrow! How harmless, how sweet!
Nervous as it was, I'm sure it lifted itself away
the moment it laid its little eyes upon you.
In fact, I'd be willing to say that there was no sparrow.
No sparrow at all! There was no bird, no sparrow, no raven.
Perhaps you weren't even in love.
Perhaps you felt this poem was lacking in romance,
thus the declaration of your "sweet Betty's" name,
a girl who probably did not exist.
So I do believe that the work you falsely became acclaimed for
is just a sham, a fraud, a postiche!
You were not pouring over literature. You were reading
a comic book! It was a Sunday afternoon that you spent alone,
and nothing out of the ordinary occurred,
except perhaps an idea borne in your mind,
a spark that caught flame within you and manifested itself
into something so famous, so renowned,
that your name would be carried forever throughout the world.
The sun was shining so, and it reminded you of fire,
which you would have lit at night, in the dark, on a dreary night.
You thought that would make for pretty prose,
scribbled it down. You heard the twitter of a sparrow --
a sparrow you did not even see! -- and you thought of
the darkest of all birds, a raven.
But what is poetic about a raven, if it does not speak?
And so your parted its lips -- beak -- what have you --
and you gave it one word to reiterate in response to anything you said.
You began to speak to this sparrow as if it were
outside your window, blathering about your childhood friend Betty,
and turned your entire afternoon, which had been pleasant
without your interference, into a dismal recountal of
a dark night in which you were haunted by a raven that could speak.
My dear man, I promise you there has been enough repitition
of your mysterious ways since the dawn of poetry.
For all you've inspired, I would be more excited
at the idea of reading about sunshine and sparrows,
perhaps some daisies. Perhaps if you were still alive,
you could write a new poem, a piece in which
your raven could speak of forevermore.
Perhaps in the next poem I write,
I will describe my most mediocre afternoon,
which will turn into something enitrely different.
Perhaps, minus the haze of truth and the dullness of realism,
it will make me as immortal as your "nevermore".
good job, Chels! you did amazingly in the play.
it was so fun to watch, but it also reminds me how imcomplete my life feels without being in Westfield. I can't remember the last time I really got to talk to Chelsea. I can't imagine what it's going to feel like when I graduate from a high school I don't care about at all; I think it could possibly be the most dissatisfying accomplishment ever. even after all this time, this isn't home. I still belong on a different stage, in a place where I'm simply mediocre instead of the world's most brilliant anything. I'm so independent, so smart and so talented here. but I don't even care about it in the least. what I would give to go back, even if it meant I was getting Cs in school again and getting the tiniest parts in the plays. I'd be there in the middle of it all, with real people who have depth, some scrap of intellect.
it sucked to see Chelsea crying because it's going to be her last fall play there. I know that no matter what part I get, no matter what show we ever do here, I will never care enough to be in tears over it. if I am in tears this year, it's going to be because I'm finishing up my childhood in all the wrong places.
Are you quite sure that the raven's arrival
was an entire surprise?
I wouldn't be offended if you admitted it --
we all sacrifice honesty for our art,
so it would be quite all right if you were to tell me
that you were expecting The Raven.
In fact, if it was really upon a sunny afternoon,
that would actually be quite nice,
or much more so than "a midnight dreary".
You may have even invited him for lunch,
a detail that might not rhyme very well with "nevermore"
and which I could overlook.
Come now, poetry is often based on truth, experience,
and sometimes it is not. But if this famous piece of yours
stretched the truth so thin that it broke into countless holes,
that would be perfectly acceptable.
One could not persecute you for adding some mystery.
Perhaps your Lenore was an Elizabeth, a Marie, or a Betty.
Perhaps she was in the other room
and as you called to her, you were not mourning her absence,
but asking her where she put your tie or shoes.
Love is not so grand everyday as it is in poetry;
a name, an entire person, could be changed without hesitation.
I hear you have an amazing imagination, Edgar!
I couldn't curse you for it; I see no problem with
stepping upon the reality of things,
detesting the simplicity of the true events in a creative fervor.
It's all right -- I know the raven didn't speak.
Let's not be silly! And I'm sure it flew away
as you moved the curtain, as most birds are quite flighty,
if you understand me. And I'm sure you returned to bed
with your Marie, your Eliza, your what-have-you,
without another thought to that ugly black bird.
Perhaps it wasn't even black, perhaps it was just
a sparrow -- a little brown sparrow on a sunny afternoon,
invited for lunch with you and your wife.
A nervous little sparrow! How harmless, how sweet!
Nervous as it was, I'm sure it lifted itself away
the moment it laid its little eyes upon you.
In fact, I'd be willing to say that there was no sparrow.
No sparrow at all! There was no bird, no sparrow, no raven.
Perhaps you weren't even in love.
Perhaps you felt this poem was lacking in romance,
thus the declaration of your "sweet Betty's" name,
a girl who probably did not exist.
So I do believe that the work you falsely became acclaimed for
is just a sham, a fraud, a postiche!
You were not pouring over literature. You were reading
a comic book! It was a Sunday afternoon that you spent alone,
and nothing out of the ordinary occurred,
except perhaps an idea borne in your mind,
a spark that caught flame within you and manifested itself
into something so famous, so renowned,
that your name would be carried forever throughout the world.
The sun was shining so, and it reminded you of fire,
which you would have lit at night, in the dark, on a dreary night.
You thought that would make for pretty prose,
scribbled it down. You heard the twitter of a sparrow --
a sparrow you did not even see! -- and you thought of
the darkest of all birds, a raven.
But what is poetic about a raven, if it does not speak?
And so your parted its lips -- beak -- what have you --
and you gave it one word to reiterate in response to anything you said.
You began to speak to this sparrow as if it were
outside your window, blathering about your childhood friend Betty,
and turned your entire afternoon, which had been pleasant
without your interference, into a dismal recountal of
a dark night in which you were haunted by a raven that could speak.
My dear man, I promise you there has been enough repitition
of your mysterious ways since the dawn of poetry.
For all you've inspired, I would be more excited
at the idea of reading about sunshine and sparrows,
perhaps some daisies. Perhaps if you were still alive,
you could write a new poem, a piece in which
your raven could speak of forevermore.
Perhaps in the next poem I write,
I will describe my most mediocre afternoon,
which will turn into something enitrely different.
Perhaps, minus the haze of truth and the dullness of realism,
it will make me as immortal as your "nevermore".
good job, Chels! you did amazingly in the play.
it was so fun to watch, but it also reminds me how imcomplete my life feels without being in Westfield. I can't remember the last time I really got to talk to Chelsea. I can't imagine what it's going to feel like when I graduate from a high school I don't care about at all; I think it could possibly be the most dissatisfying accomplishment ever. even after all this time, this isn't home. I still belong on a different stage, in a place where I'm simply mediocre instead of the world's most brilliant anything. I'm so independent, so smart and so talented here. but I don't even care about it in the least. what I would give to go back, even if it meant I was getting Cs in school again and getting the tiniest parts in the plays. I'd be there in the middle of it all, with real people who have depth, some scrap of intellect.
it sucked to see Chelsea crying because it's going to be her last fall play there. I know that no matter what part I get, no matter what show we ever do here, I will never care enough to be in tears over it. if I am in tears this year, it's going to be because I'm finishing up my childhood in all the wrong places.