Weekly Geeks: Poetry

Two options this week:

Option B: Be a poet!

Write your own poem and share with us!
Write bookish ABC poems - ABCs of favorite authors, favorite books, favorite characters, favorite book blogs, or any combination of the above. Maybe even an ABCs of a bibliophile or book addict. (A is for...B is for...etc.)(For example, ABCs of Dr. Seuss)
Review a book you’ve read recently in haiku. (It doesn’t need to be a poetry book you're reviewing, any book will do.) See Emilyreads for an idea of what I mean.
Read a poetry book and review it.

Since I have no poetry books TBR and recently composed a (prose) ABC - and as my attempts at haiku failed through an excess of words - I went with the poem-writing option. And being devoid of inspiration, I fell back on parody (or should that be ... parroty?).

The Parrot

Once upon a midnight eerie, while I sat there, dull and dreary,
And watched the shafts of lightning which across the heavens tore,
I began to think of napping, when suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
“It’s the storm,” I said, “and branches tapping, as they have before,
“Only this, and nothing more.”

Ah, distinctly I remember, it was in the bright December
(But dark that night - at least until the power had been restored);
And I wished it was the morrow, for that week I’d thought to borrow
A panacea for all sorrow - ten library books or more.
A dozen books, on top of those I had acquired before -
As if I needed any more!

While I was lost in contemplation of my reading situation,
Soon again I heard a tapping, somewhat louder than before.
Now there was no doubting that I’d have to make an outing,
Find the courage to go scouting, and this mystery explore.
“Get a grip,” I said, “you know you must this mystery explore.
It’s just the wind, and nothing more.”

Ere my nerves could fail I hurried to the hall, and though I worried,
I unlocked and I opened both the wood and wire-screen doors;
And though in each direction I conducted my inspection,
I failed in my detection, and I moved to close the doors -
Then from out the storm an object blew and landed on the floor;
A sodden bird, and nothing more.

I shut the doors behind me and hastened off to find me
A towel to dry the feathers of the creature on the floor,
And as I went I wondered, while the night around me thundered,
What species thus had blundered, and stumbled through my door.
Had ever bookworm read of such a happening before?
Came the answer: “Evermore.”

Luckily I’m not a screamer, or else had every dreamer
In the neighbourhood been roused by eighty decibels or more.
But a moment’s contemplation offered up an explanation:
“It’s just imagination, of that you can be sure.
Ornithology knows nothing of a bird that answers your
Inner thoughts with ‘Evermore.’”

Although my heart was racing, I now felt up to facing
The creature flapping wetly upon the hallway floor.
After towelling it down lightly its plumage, once unsightly,
Began to gleam so brightly that I at once was sure
It was some kind of parrot that had hurtled through my door
A few minutes before.

I took it to the table, where, as soon as it was able,
It nibbled at the paper that I’d read the day before.
“In here you can be tended, until the weather’s mended,
But then our time is ended,” and I pointed to the door.
“A wild bird cannot stay here, like a budgie from the store.”
Quoth the parrot, “Evermore.”

It would have been more fitting had a raven thus come flitting
But what would any raven ever be in Brisbane for?
And I marvelled much to hear the bird enunciate so clear
And decided an idea of what the future held in store.
But admiration notwithstanding, I would have nothing more
To do with “Evermore!”

Thus resolved, I worked to keep myself away from thoughts of sleep
So as not to miss a chance to cast the parrot out of doors.
To that end I drew a Christie (a Hercule Poirot mystery)
From the box of books whose history I’ve related here before.
“I always have more books than I can hope to find time for.”
Quoth the parrot, “Evermore.”

Something in the midnight hour makes imagination flower,
But I addresed myself more sternly than I ever have before:
“There’s a reason why this bird knows only that one word,
Your Poe-like fancies are absurd - you now will think no more
Of the likelihood of meaning in the wretched parrot’s caw
Of ‘Ever - evermore!’”

So I sat and turned the pages for a span that felt like ages,
Ever conscious of the parrot’s gaze, until mid-Chapter Four,
When, unable to inure myself to beady eyes azure,
I stopped trying to endure the thoughts which I could not ignore.
“Since you seem to have an inkling, I would some words from you implore;
The truth, not ‘Evermore!’”

The parrot not refusing, I aligned my thoughts confusing,
And voiced the question which at once had sprung up to the fore:
“Will I possess forever such a pile of books that never
Will I have the chance to ever reach the point where there’s no more?
Shall I always have a season’s reading making up my store?”
Quoth the parrot, “Evermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of wonder! I hope you haven’t made a blunder,
For a lack of books is something which a bookworm must abhor.
I must have confirmation - a brief reiteration
Of this promised situation: A never-ending store
Of fiction and non-fiction that I’ve never read before.”
Quoth the parrot, “Evermore.”

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of wonder! Finest gift a night of thunder
Ever will bestow on me, or ever has before!
I can’t begin to comprehend how I’ve acquired such a friend,
But I’m grateful without end! Books for evermore!”
Then at last I came to realise what I should have heard before:
Silence reigned beyond my door.

“That must be our sign of parting, wondrous bird!” I said, upstarting,
“For now the storm is over and it’s high time to restore
You to your rightful situation with the feathered population,
Your friends and your relations,” - here I opened wide the door.
“If only I was certain that I’d see you here some more!”
Quoth the parrot, “Evermore.”

And the parrot, ever resting, now is nesting, now is nesting
In the tangle of the allamanda close beside my door,
And his eyes have all the seeming of a smiling face’s beaming
And the sunlight o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my library books within the shadow floating on the floor
Shall be towering - evermore!