‘The soul of art is inspiration’ ~ Ginia A. Davis
Let’s take a line from Edgar Allan Poe’s, ‘The Raven‘
‘Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary’
An Odd Dream ~ Part One
When one night the sky grew dark, I was sat in the local park, brushing up on news in last month’s paper, oh, there was quite a caper.
The park was empty save for me, me and one lonely tree. Sounds of the wind whistled through the leaves almost mimicking a voice through the eves.
“Just the wind” I told myself “whistling through the trees”
Oh, now I recall, it was late in fall and no leaves were on the trees at all.
A second look and there were none, the whistling continued, and I turned to run.
Soon my bold brain mended, plucking my punctured heart out of where it had deeply descended.
As I stood up, I called out asking if someone was, “concealed about” raising my voice from quiet into shout. No answer came.
I sat back down and picked up the paper, not looking up for several minutes later.
My mind filled with terror, I dared not move, cemented in a mortal groove, a voice I heard as I peered across the paper to ascertain the vocal maker.
Darkness had fallen as my mind grew weak and my spirit weaker.
I wished I were in a dream, though I am no deep sleeper.
A boy ran up to me and stood still from the dark, he examined me with every art.
He walked with pace and purpose, making me feel strangely nervous, then he sat cross-legged like school children do.
I dared not move, so I stared back, fear gripping my shoulders like I was under attack.
“I am a man, and you are a boy.” I muttered. “why am I… so afraid of you?” I stuttered.
The boy looked; widening his eyes to see,
“there’s no escape” he said to me, his mouth curling into a smile.
I sat up in bed with a start, switching on the lamp to illuminate the dark, my room lay cold and lifeless, no natural light existed in this pit of human crisis.
“just a dream” I said aloud, shocked but quietly proud.
As I switched off the light and turned over to sleep, a voice creeped up from the floor beneath, “old boards” I whispered to whatever was underneath.
By S.J.H.F
To have passion for a subject marks a special relationship between your own creative essence and an established medium. For a piece that has been around for more than a century and a half makes that connection a little more difficult due to the amount of critique placed on the original text. The amount of literature that the original text has inspired is numerous and the popularity is immense.
To take inspiration to write one’s own piece is something, but to re-write it in a different style as a parody is something else.
Parisian Poetry 