Psychopomp, The Raven
/The following is a poem written as a modified glosa. The original structure of a glosa poem is to take four lines from an existing poem and use them as the final line of four stanzas each with ten lines in similar length to those from the original work. This poem instead, uses eight lines from Edgar Allen Poe’s “The Raven” as the first line and vaguely follows the same rhyming scheme as the original poem.
Psychopomp, the Raven
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Lost and staring, I swore a moment ago I saw the sun clearly.
Time passes strangely in the dark hours of night, easy to lose track.
I sat upon a well-worn chair, and gazed around me with great care
Taking in my great collection; relics, artworks and possessions
Of many great and noble people, artists, poets and warlords.
Clouds overcast, and fog settles, a sliver of the moon prevails
The stars have all but disappeared, another lonely night sails.
Over many quaint and curious volumes of forgotten lore,
Tonight it's over one of glorious war, which I pore.
The shadows of the night seeping in, creeping in. I turn up
The lantern and continue reading, while the rain begins beading
On the window. A storm is brewing, unsettling. Yet fitting
For ghosts and spirits float about within this witching hour.
What has kept me up this late I wonder to myself, while fighting
Eyelids drooping, unable to turn from the words, nail biting.
While I nodded nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
It was nothing, merely pattering of rain. And in the distance yapping
Of beastly dogs, while senses have betrayed me, sent my heart racing.
And so it was clear, that I should end my reading session here.
I place the tome back on the shelf, nestled in gently with the rest
Rain splashing against the glass continues, goosebumps up my arm;
My mind is playing tricks on me that I no longer can ignore.
I should have left long ago; so, off to dreamland to explore, then
As if someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
The tapping on the window was indeed a rapping at the door.
Who could possibly have gotten in? To lurk inside my house!
I crept up to the door and through the peephole I did implore.
The rapping persists, yet not a person stands there. I proceeded
And it was a raven who flew inside and perched upon a statue.
I gazed upon his ebony feathers; a sinister feeling crawling in,
Fighting drooping lids as he stared at me, and I stared at him.
And the raven never flitting, still is sitting. Still is sitting!
He stays unmoving, uncanny, and the energy is hitting
Me with unease. He matches the growing storm, rain cascading
Branches flailing, a crack of lightning, bright, and unveiling
The secrets inside this chamber. The thunder rumbles, distracting.
My gaze flew to the window, giving him ample time to shift;
I shook my head and tried to focus my truly scrambled mind.
Hark, he is gone! There are but a few black feathers left behind
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door.
I scanned the ceiling, along the wall, and right down to the floor
Nothing but ebony feathers are remaining, head is spinning.
He can't have left! He was just there! Coaxing me with unchanged stare.
A figure took my place upon that well-worn chair, and he is she.
It took effort, courage to continue my examination
Her legs crossed elegantly. Her hands placed sensually upon her knee
Finally, I glanced further her toothy smile unsettled me,
And eyes have all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming
Of another soul to lead; maybe calmly, maybe screaming.
After reading about war, and about death I worry now
Is it her or I who is entreating at this ungodly hours meeting.
Did I call her here by reading passages of long dismissed
Deities; of Pallas, of Hekate, of Hades and of Tyr.
My thoughts disrupted as curtains, pages, flames on candles are blown;
It’s only the lantern I’d placed beside me that was left alone.
And the lamp light o’er her streaming, throws her shadow on the floor.
Its dark shape is unmatching, more like the raven from before.
Puddles started forming and my collection is destroyed.
I drop to my knees, begging, and within my throat the words seize!
She only grins offering her hand; face suddenly kind, I rise
To stand before her, confusion washing over me. So I put
My hand in hers and it’s clear, so clear, she's here for me
It's time to go, to follow her, that bright light is all I see.
PHOTO: PIXABAY
photo: Anna Tarazevich
photo: alfo medeiros
Jerrica Black had her passion for writing reignited after writing blog posts for her previous job. Wanting to explore this more, she applied to Algonquin’s Professional Writing program. Within the program, Jerrica’s enjoyed honing her writing and editing skills. She didn’t think her goals would expand to wanting to publish creative work like short stories and poetry, but they did! Throughout her creative journey, she puts a big focus on the weird, the emotional and the horrifying.
