Friday, October 28, 2011

Quoth the Puppets

So, dear bloggy blog, you've probably noticed I've been posting much less. One of the reasons is I'm now also ghost blogging (in the guise of WebSpider for Puppet Treehouse). Don't worry, you're still important to me! I'm just learning to balance the various directions of my writing.

Other distractions include having the book finally assembled and getting reader comments. Soon, gentle readers, soon!

But for now, here's a poem I wrote for Puppet Treehouse that I'm just obscenely inordinately proud of, which means you get to read it too. With full apologies to Mr. Poe, and in honor of the holiday (ALSO! If you want to hear our recorded podcast of the poem, follow the link at the top of the post to Puppet Treehouse):

"Quoth the Puppets"

Once upon an evening sunny, while I thought things fun and funny,
But regretting that I'd not got groceries from the local store,
While I nattered, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping (if someone can be"gently" rapping),
Rapping at my workshop door.
"'Tis some trick or treaters," I yawned, "tapping at my workshop door -
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember, 'twas the day before November,
And each happy family member strutted costumes 'cross the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly had I sought to borrow
From my friends the perfect costume of a Spanish Matador -
For the rare and radiant montera and cape of a Matador -
Awesome garb for evermore.

And the silken happy rustling of the other costumes bustling
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic envies never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some trick or maybe treating, tapping at my workshop door.
Some child trick or maybe treating, rapping at my workshop door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Kids," said I, "or children, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I hate shopping, and though you are at my door stopping,
And in your costumes gently tapping, rapping at my workshop door,
I have no candy here to proffer, as I've not got groceries from the store."
Silence then, and nothing more.

Deep into my peekhole peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And I sorely wished (unspoken) that I were a Matador.
"This would keep me safe," I murmured, "were I just a Matador.
Merely this and nothing more."

Back into the workshop turning, all my shame within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely those knocks come from my own puppet workbox;
Let me see then, though it shocks, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis some felt and nothing more!"

Open here I flung the workbox, when, with many waving socks,
Out thence popped two furry puppets, holding stems and apple core.
Not the least "forgive us" made they, nor a minute stopped or stayed they;
But, alert and unafraid, they perched above my workshop door -
Perched upon a stack of feathers just above my workshop door -
Perched, and sat, and laughed galore.

Then these frolicking two beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the tiny puppet costumes, carefully stitched, that each one wore,
"Though that apple you've been eating, you," I said, "are sure not treating.
So I think you've come to trick me, rapping at my workshop door -
Tell me what your puppet game is, why all that knocking just before?"
Quoth the puppets, "Feed us more!"

Those two puppets, perching, chuckling, on those feathers not yet buckling,
Those three words, as if they settled any grudge or score.
Nothing further then they uttered - not a feather then they fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "Other friends have asked me more -
They have come with hungry bellies, and they ask for food, not more."
Then the pair said, "Feed us more!"

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what they utter is their only stock and store,
Caught from some poor hungry fellow whose ever-unrelenting bellow
Caused the puppets here to yell, oh, till his songs one burden bore -
Till his hunger pangs contagious spread to one and then to more -
So all puppets now cry 'Feed us more!'"

Then, methought, the air grew heavy, as a river 'gainst the levee,
And I sank to kneeling, barely echoing on the workshop floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy workbox lent thee - by these angels it has sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy missing Matador!
Look up what it means (nepenthe) and forget the Matador!"
Quoth the puppets, "Feed us more!"

"Puppets!" said I, "felt and fluffy! - well-made puppets, though you're scruffy! -
By this Halloween that hosts us - by the pumpkin by my door -
Though my workshop roof is vaunted, I am held here by you, haunted,
As you perch there, all undaunted, though I've no food in my store.
Why do you persist in staying - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the puppets, "Feed us more!"

"Take my last remaining melons! Take the plums, you puppet felons!
Take the broccoli and cabbage, mix them with your apple core!
Leave no pits there as a token, nor the seeds, as proof we've spoken,
Leave my loneliness unbroken! - I am not a Matador!
Take your perfect costumed selves and leave the not-quite Matador!"
Quoth the puppets, "Feed us more!"

And the puppets, never straying, still are sitting, still are playing,
In the pile of feathers just above my workshop door.
And with all their healthy eating (they don't bother trick or treating)
They just know to keep repeating, any time they want some more -
When they've supped on all I've offered, and I've run back to the store -
"Feed us more!"

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