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From: Bill Goodwin
Location: Los Angeles, CA
Date: 10/28/2013

October wanes! Time to haunt these weird electronic regions yet again...

A meditation on the strange circumstances of Poe's death:

POE IN THE SNOW - by Bill Goodwin

Blowing in blue skies,
a black chimney cinder.
Staining the brilliant sun,
a tiny spot.
Lying in a bed of snow,
Oh, say it's not.
They've dressed him in somebody else's clothes,
and broken, or smothered, or drugged his nose.
He cannot speak, he cannot tell,
who hurries him to hell.
Rake him up like rotten leaves,
and in the morning see who grieves.

His mother slipped away too soon
from dreary mortal affairs.
His pearl-child bride was oystered off
in alabaster coffin layers.
Adoptive parents, done with him,
and critics having fun with him,
oh, Edgar, how the pale hands beckoned
from Eurekas yet unreckoned,
promising walls of protecting sod,
if you would just pray: "For the love of God."

Scratching every night your quill
by lamp and brandy, hoping still
to catch some gilt-begotten train,
till winter wilts your hothouse brain.
Damn and abolish this cold.
A thousand wicks burn wild for you,
but pit and cat and murd'ring ape
are not enough to part that mold
which swallows your tale-telling heart.
Nevermore beating.
Blanketed in snow.
Oh, Poe.

Take ease in loveless tarn.
The threads you leave
will surely weave
new leagues of shining yarn.
Who needs these nattering literary gentry
--these chattering Blackwood cognoscenti--
let merry life that spurned your worth
bury merely itself with spades of earth
now tumbling on your box.
Wait there, safe, till time unlocks,
then be returned in tides of ink.
And snow be gone.
And Poe have peace.
And leisure at last to think.

Sleep, dear son of Providence.
Gather back unto that center
whence unspools each starry fiber,
and, sleeping, be awake in me,
dream within dream,
rich as cream,
or moonlight on the Tiber.
Wander in some warmer place,
and find some fertile, rosy breast
on which to rest
your vaulted, waxen brow.
All's a purchase, all's a prize,
close your eyes and surrender your heart,
no one will tread upon it now.

Poe in snow.
Snow on Poe.
How exactly did it end?
It endeth not but forever begins.
And we will never know.


Hoping you and yours are well,



From: Greg Bear
Date: 11/07/2013

Wondereful! Quoth the snow: you never know!


From: Bill Goodwin
Location: Los Angeles, CA
Date: 11/07/2013

"What snow?"
"Not much, what's new with you?"


From: Greg Bear
Date: 11/13/2013

Can't top that!


From: Roald Laurenson
Location: in view of the Coronado Islands
Date: 11/27/2013

Just a 'ha', to join the laughter ;)

well played...!

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