A Plutonian Snore
- for class. Finally my professor had given us something that wasn’t terrible to read, Edgar Allen’s poem, Lenore.
Fed up upon an evening dreary, for my mind a question queries,
O’er a tidal wave of aging prose and poems bound to bore—
While I noodled, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As if some winged desire came flapping, slapping me awake once more.
“’Tis a subterfuge,” I muttered, “a dream wrest from my phrenic core—
Only this and nothing more.
Ah, the boredom, I remember, had collected to dismember
Me of all my confidence that I could learn the poet’s lore.
Eagerly I read each verse—the words in Edgar Allen’s purse—
Hoping they could lift the curse; cursed by a school’s chalk wielding bore.
For all “rare” and “radiant” poems never failed in me to bore—
Only this and nothing more.
But no! a slight, syllabic slurry caused a sudden flight to flurry
Found me—bound me with beatific bounties never felt before,
And lo! As if to still the bobbing of my heart’s excited throbbing,
Let loose with a gaseous offing, a scent that sent me to the floor.
Some late departed fool, I farted, numbing my frail phrenic core—
Only this and nothing more.
Presently the smell grew fainter––my digestive portrait painter—
“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore,”
But the fact is I was lonely, so the smell had hit me only;
The force of words had come to own me in a way not known before.
My digestive tract attested to this force a sign, a snore—
A distraction, nothing more.
Long into that poem peering, through old lamp-lit stanzas veering,
Stimulating sibilants to quash my anesthetic snore,
The silence remained unbroken, no more did I heed that token
For my bowels had left unspoken my new love; the late “Lenore”—
As I read I came to feel a love for this innate Lenore—
Merely this and nothing more.
Now I noticed my heart turning, all my soul within me burning,
Had a lack of oxygen forged this amorous aperture?
“Surely,” said I, “Surely there is nothing in my mortal status
That could forge a loving mate as loving as this corpse; Lenore,
So let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—
‘Tis my wind and nothing more!”
Open here I flung the shutter to diffuse this evening flutter,
So the draft swept up my odor like a Saint’s celestial cure,
Not able to secure it’s scent—nor compensate—it up and went
Without mien of gallantry; no quittance in the final score,
And still I felt this burning passion deep inside my phrenic core—
I yearned for this and nothing more.
An idea caused me to start; “’Twas the poem, not the fart!
That forged itself within my heart, and bent my knees down to the floor,”
For in that moment’s misery I’d entered an abyss for He—
The poet that had lost his only love; the infinite Lenore.
Poetry had gone and permeated through my porous pores,
I could hate it nevermore.
Permeated, impregnated—despite this farce has captivated
Even my uncultured focus on this Plutonian shore.
Since Silverstein’s bright attic light, a Mariner’s paean plight,
And even Cummings’ cadences of Scotland’s user-friendly whores,
It Led The Raven to its haven deep within my phrenic core—
There to perch for evermore.
[An aside to sanctify this pun-filled, over-winded try
to show my new delight in finding verse that I do not abhor;
Capable of a romance to far outweigh my flatulence,
I’m sure that Edgar Allen’s grave is still––despite this college chore.
“Desist from turning, Mr Poe, for now you’re with your love Lenore,”
With her now and evermore.]
