WILLIAM: The plums were lovely, dark and deep, an–
Scratch that. It just seemed to creep in.
So much depends on your forgiveness. I don’t know if I can live this
down. My face is glazed with tears and, near my mouth and thumb,
the sweet and sticky juices of plums, plums, plums, plums plums, plums PLUMS!
WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS: In the icebox there were plums, and I have eaten every one, and
only then I thought about what you had bought them for.
Sheepishly, I ask in sorrow, what now will we eat tomorrow?
They were sweet and cold, and on my knees I now implore:
Will you forgive me?
FLORENCE WILLIAMS: Nevermore.
As I waken, quite hung over,
And I shamble to the stove, or
Coffee pot, or other spot
Where I might sit and mull,
I am met with dreadful luck: my
Eyes are in that moment struck by
The harsh illuminations of bulbs! bulbs! bulbs!
BULBS! BULBS!
In honor of his best-known poem, artists often depict Edgar Allan Poe with a raven on his shoulder.
They tend not to do this with William Blake.
Why do birds tap upon my door
And declare “Nevermore”?
Just like me, they long to read
Poe to you.
Why do bells never seem to cease?
I can’t get any peace.
Just like me, they want to read
Poe to you.
In the cellar there’s a cask
Of aged amontillado; I
Invited you to come and have a drink,
Then I bricked you up inside the wall
and then installed a toilet and a sink.
Aaah, aaaaaah, poe to you,
Aaaaaaah, Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah! poe to you.
Now your heart beats beneath the floor—
I can hear through the boards.
Just like me, it longs to read
Poe to you.
Aaaaaaaaah! Aaaaaaaaaaaah!
Poe to you.
Why, I wonder, do you reckon that this bird would come here pecking?
What strange sound incited her to pick the henhouse lock?
Did she cross for country, hip-hop, bluegrass, jazz, or rock?
Quoth the chicken: “Bach.”
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