A Poem for Edgar Allan Poe
by Bill Bowler
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Edgar Allan Poe is known
for eloquence in prose and verse.
He yearned for sensuous young girls,
drank excessively, smoked opium...
and Poe is not alone!
Despite his greater fame,
although he’s first.
His lost Lenore became
the only object of my search
the moment I first heard her name
from him and felt the same.
* * *
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore,
Nameless here for evermore...
Afraid that sadness might begin,
I opened up an unlocked door,
the entrance to an unseen inn
that lies beyond the distant shore,
Lands that are thoughts in a clouded mind.
“Out of Space — Out of Time,”
and at the same time, out of place.
Preoccupied when I arrived,
I dropped my eyes and watched my face
watch back from deep within a glass
of dry white wine. A waitress passing
brushed against my shoulder. Instant
bliss! It bridged the distance
but dissolved in consciousness as fast
as confidence, and could not last.
I sat in darkness at the bar,
and sought escape, and pondered fate,
and thought, Things aren’t what they are!
Nothing’s what it seems.
It’s unrehearsed; the end’s a mess;
the rest is worse and best repressed
by any means, unless...
I guessed and gasped,
but when I grasped it, laughed,
Just when it is, it’s not!
I tired of wine and switched to scotch
when, nearer than before,
I seemed to hear a woman sigh.
It pierced my breast! I caught my breath,
looked up and cried, “Lenore?!”
But there was no one at my side.
I paid the bill and walked outside
as silence filled the room once more.