Jennie Sparrow (110877 / Tahlequah, OK)
Raven and the Sparrow
Who was this entity that I adored?
That came from the ocean shore.
The Masque of Red Death that it wore.
Who was it that was rapping at my chamber door?
How I found it familiar within my bones to the very core.
Much like when the Raven called Nevermore.
All of these things and words I knew from a different time.
They were moments I once witnessed upon my very mind.
Why were these prodegies haunting me?
Who was the one I owed ever to be so kind?
In the midst of a woman whose name was Annabel Lee.
How and why would I know such a name?
This aching torture was driving me insane.
A creature that seemed to know exactly who I was,
Went through such great lengths to make themselves known,
Leaving me with thoughts of emptiness and wonder he must,
The presence that so often visits me.
Taking me to a time I so desperately needed to be shown.
Maybe this epiphany was only a dream within a dream,
Through the air of the night,
I began to hear the wedding bells,
One of whom that I have never seen,
What was this rapturing future?
That this story teller could tell?
Who was this character that once displayed matters of a Tell-Tale heart?
His heart heavy for a lost valentine,
So close upon me yet we lived in worlds so different and a part,
His words spoke sweetly of a name much like mine.
Who would have thought that this poet would be someone that I know,
Though he lived long over a century ago,
As a young scholar I studied his rhymes,
Though I knew nothing of the haunting that was yet to come,
Much like sixteen candles it announced itself all in good time.
For it was within the years of 1993-1996,
I can still remember his words,
Within those years I would not allow myself to forget,
I knew that he once spoke of a different bird.
One other than myself the Sparrow,
A visitor in the bleak December,
As he vainly sought the morrow,
One he would not forget and one that I would also remember.
Seemingly unrelated I cannot help but wonder,
That I was the Immortal that dared to dream his thoughts,
Perhaps it was I of the spell that myself was under,
I know of these dreams because he has not forgot.
For he is the one behind the shadows and of the misty shores,
That wrote about the rapping at his own chamber door,
I wonder well and what for,
Why I also heard the whisper that spoke of Nevermore.
Why must I think of a place in which he lived in?
For my own imaginations keep me entertained,
It is true I am the blood of a Sparrow,
So why must I hear the words of such a Raven?
It is strange sounds that keep me intertwined,
Between my life now and his then sorrow.
It is not mine to borrow or to take,
Lines of a man that is such a legend,
Of an evil eye that kept him awake,
He is my brother, my mentor, my friend.
Once upon a time among midnight,
He pondered from within,
Upon the same moonlight,
And wrote of stories like the Pit and the Pendulum.
Who would recollect of such horrors?
Left trapped among dungeons of darkness,
Those whispers of nights of terrors,
Yet it was done so in a way of elaborateness.
That consumes me to dwell within it,
The poetic persuation of vivid stories,
Upon the shadows we both sit,
Reading, rhyming, and writing within each others glory.
I recall the poets work as I sit in an empty room,
Upon many late hours,
Imagine myself within the mansion of doom,
Within his imagination I am devoured.
What fine instruction and proper words he did utter,
Were those the words of an ingenious man?
When he spoke of The Fall of the House of Usher,
Or was this a reflection of one with an insane mind and murderous hands?
I now knew of him and he knew of me,
And now we knew of us,
Placed well upon my mind and roots,
All I could dream about was of his haunted palace,
I realized that I was and had always been a part of his books.
Through the years I have also wrote many poems, short stories, and works of my very own;
I recognize what he was during the time of his struggles,
I see his reflections as the river flows,
With my own words I have grown puzzled,
We both write of things that no one else knows.
For these thoughts are deep and locked away,
It would be foolish to keep them inside our head,
Such master pieces should be free upon the day,
To dance with the living and to remember the dead.
The ways only we know best,
To seek ones who wish to be a part of it,
To embrace the future, understand the present, and learn from the past;
Always knowing what we refuse to let the world to forget.
We know of such places,
Where these stories are told,
About murder, revenge, plague, being buried alive and of insanity;
Tales of love stories, physics, suspense, and comedies also so bold;
With the love of adventure and of the high seas.
Like me he was drawn to the moon and to the ocean,
His distinct skills unique and bizarre,
From An Angel of Odd to the Murders in the Rue Morgue,
I also knew I was meant for something more to believe in,
He was brilliant, original, imaginative, and ingenious by far;
Yet I am still confused by the mysteries that I have always adored.
Not knowing that exact reason,
Behind the obsessions of the dark,
Or why we share the love for writing upon evenings of Autumn,
But somehow I know that I continue to play my part.
In a world that he once knew,
Of which he wrote the Purloined Letter,
And of matters in his mind that he found to be true,
Or why we are of the same wind that blows the same lonely feather.
We are of birds of a different breed,
That dream of visions in the dark night,
To live to write as we learn to breathe,
But of a dream of life and light.
Him and I are not left broken hearted,
As we look into the eyes of the past,
We share a dream in which we are not quite departed,
From the dream in which was always meant to last.
We have shared a common childhood,
One brought from difference and of passion,
From a new passage of both sorrow and of livelihood,
I know all too well this heartache that it forever trapped within,
For I too was indifferent, articulate, beautiful, strange, and misunderstood;
And I mourned at things that were far and thin,
I wasn't all too evil but I was never all that good,
I laughed at things I knew that I shouldn't feeling that it was a sin.
And I cried over too many frivilous cases that didn't even matter,
Some things I cannot even remember and others I can't forget,
With the very thought of it makes my heart shatter,
But I refuse to live within my own regret.
From traveling sorrows I have learned to awaken,
My thoughts of those which I've known,
Lessons taught and many points have finally been taken,
I know of the golden tint of Autumn,
When what he felt was always alone.
Isn't it true however, that we all wear the Cask of Amontillado?
Of ones of poetic discussions,
So to speak of sweet revenge,
Or of places that one goes,
When in search of tales that make you cringe,
Just like the Imp of the Preverse by crastination and confessions.
Whom wears the portrait of such an oval?
Whose love suddenly ends tragic,
The nightmarish premature burial,
Locked away as if it were a manuscript,
Found in a traveling bottle,
Witnessing the Hop-Frog cursed by his own magic,
Still searching for The Gold Bug's Treasure.
Such mesmeric revelation,
When you dream at night in bed,
At the twilight when you sleep,
About a comedy of love at first sight as The spectacles of Speculation,
But Never Bet the Devil Your Head,
Just as soon as The Mummy Speaks.
I remember when I was followed,
Was a haunting supernatural tale much like Ligeia,
A grave that I could see was far too shallow,
He couldn't leave without an adventure,
Or without the facts in the case of M. Valdemar,
Such struggle of man vs. nature of A Descent Into Malstrom,
And who could forget the unforgettable Eleonora.
Born from a passionate friendship The Black Cat named Pluto began,
To also experience the effects,
We did not understand what lay ahead,
I could not explain these familiar coincidences,
Was much hope left to be heard,
Whose honor lay upon her teeth,
I wondered once and again,
Such a lady whose name was Berenice.
It did not mean so much to me anymore,
Ways of intoxication and of gore,
I felt the rage as it pour,
As it started and completed even in modern horror.
How could these stories still be adored,
Some I must say are still deeply touching and quite forlorne,
Many for most may be a bit grotesque,
Yet I know of the poet in his worst and when at his best.
Cold dark remnants of a view,
Had me lost upon relics and wonders,
Yes my own stories I may have a few,
My stories of Immortals, Kings and Queens, and of Messengers.
I have also written of many adventures,
Nature's most beautiful poems,
Times of tragedy and despair,
And of the world we live in.
Life's moments of lost love and happiness,
Precious memories and of love letters,
Seasons of murders, burdens, betrayal and lies,
Layers in between of when times were better.
Taking the errors of its limits,
Amazing bliss that is surreal,
Ways of many lessons and timeless secrets,
Secrets that only time could reveal,
Condensed matters into a tiny locket,
A lifetime of learning exactly how to feel.
Waking up and discovering passion,
Going to bed left wondering,
Left lonely and mindless,
Dreaming during the night new creations,
Not even knowing you are still dreaming,
Creating a new life that remains timeless,
Never being afraid of anything ever again.
Mocking and remembering such treasures,
Creeping in is the unwanted darkness,
Abandoned by several fears,
Thoughts of haunted pleasures,
Not even knowing its own fondness,
As it is left upon the years,
Fearing all of its despereate measures.
But the time is still as it remains,
Leaving me to wake upon the night,
Gone with all the other memories,
Shadows consuming me when they linger,
Forgetting the reasons to complain,
Being consumed by its very fright,
Playing along within my own symphonies,
As the piano is played by my own fingers,
Who would know that it was me by name,
All that has taken away my perfect sight,
Oh how sweet is such a melody,
To know that mine is not the voice of such a singer,
Soon those would know that I would never be the same.
Who would recognize in my times of loneliness,
The ones that know of me well,
Those who would forget in times of happiness,
I knew the stories that I alone would tell,
They gave my secrets for selfishness,
I knew of the lies they would soon fortell,
Betrayed once again I would soon fail,
Premeditated upon my own self consciousness,
Much like the one that has yet to prevail.
It sings a song about the infant Crysanthemum,
My lullabies filled with sorrowful songs,
From the lonesome cricket in Autumn,
In hopes to know the words to sing along,
Wishing for a new indifferent ultimatum,
Making it worse as it prolongs,
Searching for desires and dreams but having none.
They are the lost words that are sung,
Watch as I change with the leaves as they fall,
Sung from the lonely cricket's lungs,
Suddenly I heard silence as I recall,
An illusional future had already begun,
It was something that I never could have known at all,
I wanted for the bells once again as they soon rung.
As they often did from time to time,
When we were lost,
Listen as the bells now chime,
At no certain cost,
I knew that all would soon be mine,
All that ever mattered the most,
When I decided it would all rewind.
I watched as I changed,
Father time was my only friend,
Only time within time remained,
Now I take the hands of time by the hand,
Witnessing a time untamed,
Because there was no beginning and no end,
All resolved only by my hands.
There was now no darkness,
And light between space and time,
Now not knowing the difference,
Between your heart and mine,
Not knowing the difference between happiness,
No equators, parts, degrees or lines,
Not knowing the difference between loneliness,
There was no harm, sin, hate, or crime.
Within this it is all that is due,
A renewal upon all of its graces,
It is all that I wish to pursue,
To see the look upon all of their faces,
For them to all know that I am the only Sparrow True,
I have seen and traveled all places,
These are all things I plan to renew.
In the coming of my new vows,
I shall hear the sound of nothing but laughter,
There is to be no past, present, or future, only now;
Not knowing hatred or sadness not ever,
My secrets never but I will show you how,
To know a life of happily ever after,
Now I gladly take my earned bow.
As there is an end to my nightmares,
No more will what I feel is torn,
Such feelings I no longer share,
The echoes of these words no more,
Look into my eyes as you glare,
You ask what life that I live for,
Come close within if you dare,
Because there is much left in store,
To no one else will I be compared.
Remember that nothing is what it ever seems,
Your life is ours but mine is my own,
Because I created the obsession of dreams,
For it is mine alone that I have redeemed,
I am the one true Immortal renowned,
And I am the illusion of a dream within the dream of all dreams.
So watch me again as I fall,
I was born to be the one to fail,
But it seems to be as I recall,
I was also born to be the one to prevail.
So witness this as I succeed,
I am a Goddess of true failure,
That is all I am meant to be,
But know that I am also a Goddess of pleasure,
I am the one that chooses to be free,
I am the present, future, and the past of my treasures,
I am the precious jewel that is within me.
I am the one that you hate to love,
Yet I am also the one that you love to hate,
I am the one who flies with wings above,
Yet I am the only one who decides my own fate.
I am the moon when you are alseep,
I am the sun when you are awake,
I am the one who makes you weak,
I am the one who makes many and no mistake.
So when you dream,
Dream of me,
I am all that I seem,
It is all that I am meant to be.
In your nightmares undiscovered,
And your secrets and lies disclosed,
Your soul left uncovered,
And your hopes and dreams exposed.
I am the unwanted shadow,
The one who haunts,
When I am left hollow,
Your soul I taunt.
Forget me not,
Sweet, sweet memories,
I am all that you forgot,
And you are nothing at all like me.
In your memory I have already faded,
By my blood you are once again reborn,
Making all that I always created,
Away from me you are forever torn.
I feel nothing but the moon upon my skin,
As I look unto the night of the stars,
My life has yet to begin,
This is not the first or last of me by far.
Now you know all that I have given,
We both have written upon deeds at midnight,
And we both have spoke of the Raven,
As we continued to write until sunlight.
Where we belong no one knows,
The lonely cricket has been replaced,
By the cock that now crows,
For the day and night before has been misplaced.
Who should I now bid great sorrow?
As the Raven speaks once more,
While others sleep unto the morrow,
And I shall speak again Evermore.
Who is this I see?
His smile was a mystery,
This figure that stood as a blur within my shadow,
Did he live and breathe?
Or was this a fragment of an old yet fond memory,
Who was this mysterious stranger within the moon's Autumn glow?
What message does he send before me?
Why does this articulate artist often visit me so?
I wonder what his name must be,
Perhaps no one will ever know,
Or perhaps he is the ghost of the ever so great Edgar Allan Poe!
Poet's Notes about The Poem
Comments about this poem (Raven and the Sparrow by Jennie Sparrow )
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