Poetic License...

Edgar Allan Poe's Raven Pecked to Death by a Parrot

By Margo Morgan

Famous American poet Edgar Allan Poe lost his bird of ill-omen to the vicious beak of his late love Lenore's parrot. Apparently, jealousy was the motive. Poe is in seclusion and could not be reached for comment. When asked when the bard might be available for an interview, quoth the bird, "Nevermore."

According to the mindless gibbering of the parrot, nameless here forevermore, the fact is Poe was napping yesterday evening when said parrot came tapping, gently rapping at his chamber door. Poe awoke, stilled the beating of his heart, and stood repeating that some late visitor was entreating entrance at his door. "Lenore?" he cried through the door, although he knew she'd died before. The bird affirmed it. Quoth the parrot, "Nevermore."

Poe, his brow in furrow, flung back the door, desperate to borrow before tomorrow a night of sleep to soothe his sorrow. His soul with weariness laden implored the parrot of his dead maiden to enter forth and he would aid him. Even as Raven posed covetously upon Poe's shoulder, Edgar Allan ravenously embraced the colorfully feathered and repetitious ornithological remembrance of his sweet Lenore. The parrot, espying the raven poised mockingly on the very place his mistress had once laid her lovely head, squawked and balked, rocked and flocked, then talked: "Nevermore."

His eyes having all the seeming of a demon that is dreaming, and the lamp-light o-er him streaming, Parrot lunged at Raven, who never even flitted. Consumed with jealous grief, Parrot heaved his beak into Raven, leaving only a black plume as token of the fury his soul had spoken. Parrot spread his wings near broken, and perched himself upon Poe's shoulder, forevermore.

Poe, now having witnessed two untimely deaths, slipped furtively behind his chamber door. Then sadness turned to badness and, in hopes of finding gladness, Poe eyed the feathered madness of the parrot at his neck. Their eyes grew wild, both realizing they were alone at last. The silence was unbroken and the stillness gave no token and the only word there spoken was Poe's whispered "Anymore?"

Quoth the parrot, "Nevermore."

A recluse, Margo Morgan goes to great lengths to remain as anonymous as a licensed poet can. She received her license at age 17, even though she had a little trouble parallel parking.

Ms. Morgan's column first appeared in The Teaspoon Times ( www.teaspoontimes.com).