With apologies to
Edgar Allan Poe
Once upon a Wednesday dreary, while I laboured, sad and weary,
Over many a
dry and
tedious poem by some novice poor,
While I looked for some
redeeming feature, something helpful seeming,
In my head a voice was screaming, screaming "what a bloody bore"
"It's impossible," I muttered, "what an awful chore;
This is
trite, and nothing more."
Ah, distinctly I remember, how I wanted to
dismember,
And cremate each limb and member and to wallow in the gore.
In my mind I pictured terror; means to punish every error
Each one crueller, harsher, rarer, rarer than the one before,
For the
dull and
prurient writing which I sadly sat before,
Turgid now and evermore.
And the urge I felt for burning every paper I was turning
Thrilled me---filled me with a wild
elation never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"It's some student pen
excreting what he thinks is
metaphor
Just some student pen excreting what he thinks is metaphor.
This it is, and nothing more."
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," wrote I, "or madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, this your
ditty, makes me gently sob with pity,
It's not moving, deep or witty, pretty, sweet or strong or raw,
I forgot it as I read it," Here a double
underscore;---
"It's just words, and nothing more."
As I looked at what I'd written, it seemed
cruel and hard-bitten
But yet, truthful, truth no teacher ever dared to write before
And I knew that if dared it, took my soul and starkly bared it
And thus fearlessly declared it, that I'd soon be shown the door
This I told myself, in whispers, "Anne, you'll soon be shown the door.
It's disaster; say no more."
Back I went to vainly gazing, seeking something there worth praising,
Once again I read right through it, I continued to explore
'Maybe,' thought I, 'the
alignment, might show something of
refinement'
In the length of this assignment, there is nothing to deplore
And in print and
presentation, there's still nothing to deplore
I'll say that, and nothing more."
Grading 'C' I flung the poem, on the heap of marked work growing,
Then I looked at the remaining, with a sigh much like a roar
Any jot of
inspiration would appear an
aberration
Midst this
lingual devastation, that was littering my floor.
Lying mutely on the carpet, littering my chamber floor
Work, just work, and nothing more.
Then a name I saw that gave me some small hope, and smiling bravely
I attacked the task with
vigour, for I'd seen the name before
And the last time that I read it, there was work that I could credit
With ability to
edit, and to turn a metaphor
To write strong and worthwhile verses and to turn a metaphor
And the name was Trevor Moore
And I revelled in his rhyming, in the flow and in the timing ,
Though his subject
sentimental, little revelation bore;
For you cannot help agreeing that a
literary being
Is bound to smile at seeing words they're able to adore
Language dancing on the paper that they're able to adore
From the pen of Trevor Moore
But too soon that
script was finished, and my happiness diminished
That one piece, and then the next one only
angst had to outpour
Nothing more than anguished bleeding, in the poem I was reading
No finesse within the screeding of another wordy bore
And I had to find some promise in this other wordy bore
How I longed for Trevor Moore
Growing sadder by the second, I surveyed the pile and reckoned
I'd be lucky if it held another 'A' for me to score
Duty is a stubborn master, and each feeble new disaster
Followed fast and followed faster, till my head and eyes were sore,---
Till my heart was dull and
leaden and my head and eyes were sore
Still seeking --- Trevor Moore
For a moment I saw, shining, something seeming more than whining
But soon it had descended into sloppiness, I saw
And the spelling grew
erratic, and the language more
fanatic
Wheezing to an end
asthmatic hardly worth the oath I swore
Hardly worth the
plangent, bitter, sharp and
raucous oath I swore
This was no new Trevor Moore
Thus I sat engaged in marking, on another piece embarking
Sighing at the
sable paper and the silver ink it bore
And again I sought words
civil, just to criticise this
drivel
Though my soul began to
shrivel and my mind began to roar
Started silently to shrivel with my mind's beginning roar
'Where's the skill of Trevor Moore?'
Then, methought, the sky grew darker, with the shade of some dead marker
Killed by kindliness and
patience as he marked the scripts of yore
"Wretch," he said, "be not despairing - of these works with errors glaring
Cease, oh cease this sad comparing, to the one you marked before
There's no point in ever caring for the 'A' you marked before
There's no second Trevor Moore."
"Tutor!" said I, "honest seeming!--tutor still, if ghost or dreaming!
Whether madness sent, or whether pity brought you to my door
Desolate, am I, and tired, seeking always verse inspired
In these pieces we required --tell me truly, I implore:
Is there--is there talent hiding?--tell me--tell me I implore!"
He said "Only Trevor Moore"
"Tutor!" said I, "honest seeming!--tutor still, if ghost or dreaming!
By that
muse that keeps us writing --by those words we both adore--
Tell me now for I grow grimmer, could there be a distant
glimmer,
Even just a silver
shimmer, of the beauty I look for?
Just the merest, haziest shimmer, of the beauty I look for?"
He said only "Trevor Moore"
"If that's all your
comfort, leave me! Your advice begins to peeve me.
Go away and let me
plod on through this dull and thankless chore.
This will take me many hours, and your vast
prophetic powers
Show me only weeds, not flowers! - Bugger off, you prosy bore!
So,
begone now, go! Away, I said -- begone, you prosy bore!"
He went, saying "Trevor Moore"
And the poems, never-ending, all are blending, all are blending
Into one great mess of oneness, stark and white upon the floor
And his words come back to
haunt me, with each paper, still they
taunt me.
And I cannot let them
daunt me though he seemed so sad and sure;
I must keep my hopes up always, yet he seemed so sad and sure
Is there only --- Trevor Moore?