Once upon a Sunday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious story of blood and gore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at my mind’s backdoor.
” ‘Tis some idea,” I muttered, “tapping at my mind’s backdoor;
Only this, and nothing more.”
So I went back to my reading, but the tapping was succeeding
In annoying me – buoying me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
” ‘Tis some idea entreating entrance through my mind’s backdoor,
Some late idea entreating entrance as I said before.
This it is, and nothing more.”
Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
“Idea,” said I, “or story, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is, I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my mind’s backdoor,
That I scarce was sure I heard you. Will you now come to the fore?”
Blankness there, and nothing more.
Open here I flung my memory when, scratched and hard like emery,
Stumbled in the writer’s block, from which I suffered more and more.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But with mien of lord or lady, did the very thing that I deplore.
Perched inside the mind of Paul, my creative side to ignore,
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.
And the blockage, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
In the stilted mind of Paul that is stationary once more;
And his words have all the seeming of illusionary dreaming.
And the ideas linger sinking in the shadows on the floor;
And my thoughts from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be written – nevermore!