The poem for today is a parody of Edgar Allen Poe’s The Raven , which is well worth a read – but again a bit long to place on here. Today’s poem is also a prime example of Cat Poetry – something I’m trying to find more of.
But anyway, back to the poem. Poe’s Raven is about a guy who’s having a quiet night in with his books and gets spooked by a raven that starts tapping at his window. He lets it in and it perches on a bust (a statue of a head & shoulders only) and proceeds to talk – but it can only say one word.. “Nevermore”. The guy starts lamenting his lost love and goes a bit mad, thinking the raven has been sent by heaven or hell to torment him…
I’ll give you the first stanza, just so you get an idea of the metre and tone:-
“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.”
This is some original cover art for The Raven, first published in 1845
Now, lets see the poem from a feline perspective.. :)
THE END OF THE RAVEN
by Edgar Allen Poe’s cat
from Henry Beard’s ‘Poetry For Cats’
On a night quite unenchanting, when the rain was downward slanting,
I awakened to the ranting of the man I catch mice for.
Tipsy and a bit unshaven, in a tone I found quite craven,
Poe was talking to a Raven perched above the chamber door.
“Raven’s very tasty,” thought I, as I tiptoed o’er the floor,
“There is nothing I like more”
Soft upon the rug I treaded, calm and careful as I headed
Towards his roost atop that dreaded bust of Pallas I deplore.
While the bard and birdie chattered, I made sure that nothing clattered,
Creaked, or snapped, or fell, or shattered, as I crossed the corridor;
For his house is crammed with trinkets, curios and weird decor
Bric-a-brac and junk galore.
Still the Raven never fluttered, standing stock-still as he uttered,
In a voice that shrieked and sputtered, his two cents’ worth – “Nevermore.”
While this dirge the birdbrain kept up, oh, so silently I crept up,
Then I crouched and quickly lept up, pouncing on the feathered bore.
Soon he was a heap of plumage, and a little blood and gore –
Only this and not much more.
“Oooo!” my pickled poet cried out, “Pussycat, it’s time I dried out!
Never sat I in my hideout talking to a bird before;
How I’ve wallowed in self-pity, while my gallant, valiant kitty
Put an end to that damned ditty” – then I heard him start to snore.
Back atop the door I clambered, eyed that statue I abhor,
Jumped – and smashed it on the floor.