The Poe Page

Spoofing on that po' poet, Poe, is almost a subgenre of parody all by itself, to put it Poe-lightly. Here are three Poe-ems we found amusing. --CS

(Edgar Allan Poe reports on a basketball warm-up)

Hear the chatter of the balls—
Basketballs!
Hear the echoes of their prattle rattle, rattle off the walls.
Hear them stutter, stutter, stutter
On the floorboards of the gym.
Hear the grumbles that they utter
And the mumbles that they mutter
To the backboard and the rim
And the gibberish
Of their swish, swish, swish,
In the discombobulation that cacophonously calls
From the balls, balls, balls, balls
Balls, balls, balls—
The empty-headed babble of the balls.

© Bob McKenty

"The Balls" previously appeared in The Random House Treasury of Light Verse, Louis Phillips, ed.

It was many and many a year ago
in the city of the bean
that a maiden there lived whom you won't know
as the beautiful Leda Levine.
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
than to be quite excessively lean.

Her mom, a relentlessly svelte size 2
with a strong Nancy Reagan-esque mien,
forever exhorted her round little girl
to never once leave her plate clean,
so we furtively went out for Szechuan food
in locales where we wouldn't be seen.

I adolesced and my friend adolesced
in the city of the bean,
and she secretly starved and she frequently purged,
poor mixed-up Leda Levine,
till she looked like an inmate of Bergen-Belsen
before we were seventeen.

And this was the reason that long ago
in the city of the bean
that an ambulance went went to her house, taking
the angular Leda Levine,
and that her family's internist came
and dosed her with thorazine,
and shut her up in a locked-door ward
near the city of the bean.

Her parents, burning with shame in Back Bay,
couldn't cope with their difficult teen.
Yes - this was the reason, (as all women know
in the city of the bean)
that they shipped her off to The Hartford Retreat,
deserting and hurting poor Leda Levine.

And I can't eat ice cream without having a dream
of the beautiful Leda Levine,
or nibble french fries but I feel the bright eyes
of the beautiful Leda Levine.
When I order roast veal I will let it congeal
as I stop, while ingesting a fine 4-star meal
in bistros where it's chic to be seen
in the city of the bean.

© Mitchell Geller

"Leda Levine" previously appeared in Worm.

Once upon a morning shining, while I lingered cranked and whining
over many a lewd and curious volume of poorly written porn,
while I thumbed through, mostly laughing, suddenly there came a snapping—
that of teenage ugly rapping, ruining my sunshine morn.
"'Tis some smart-ass," said I, cursing, "probably someone that I've borne—
Now I'll have to hide the porn."

Damn, distinct I hear the tune, rising up like lovesick loon,
invading into quiet June, now wrought with noise, and I'm forlorn.
Eagerly I wish illusion, vainly now I seek delusion
in my books awash with lust—lust found in my poor-writ porn.
Where's the lewd lascivious grin once found upon a sunshine morn?
I'd hoped to find it in the porn.

Somehow the secret smiled picture of each thought so wildly wicked
thrilled me—chilled me, leaving me with deep grin worn
hidden 'neath a parent face, and I muttered without grace,
"'Tis some child without key, locked outside on sunshine morn.
Some teenage boy that never heeded what his mother often warned.
For sure, I have to ditch the porn."

Presently my mood grew stronger, hesitating then, no longer,
"Child," I said, "My dear first-born, go play in traffic, but heed the horn
of the cars and of the trucks, go away, here's twenty bucks.
Your mother's busy, busy scheming, buying back her summer morn."
I closed the curtains, slammed the doors, re-locking out the pest I'd borne.
Perhaps now I could read the porn.

Deep beneath the down-filled covers, hiding there like long-lost lovers,
lurk the hot and horny words no mother should ought utter in the morn.
Soon the hormones will be churning, raging passion will be burning,
and the only purple rustling heard will be the nightdress that I've worn.
"Alone again," I whisper, smiling, salvaging my sunkissed morn,
returning to my waiting porn.

Back inside the bedroom grinning, with heated blood so rapid spinning—
but wait—I hear the rap returning (I should have killed that crazed first-born).
And all the bloody lust unmet, it fills me now with deep regret. With menopausal mother scorn, and with my patience finally worn
I toss aside the down-filled covers, trashing thoughts of joyous morn,
and quoth disgusted, "Screw the porn."

© Laura Heidy