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This poem was written while I was in High School, which was also the height of my poetry-writing days.
The initial inspiration was a line from another poem by E. Poe.
I showed it to my Honors English teacher and unknown to me, he entered it into a statewide poetry contest. I only found this out when I was congratulated for winning 3rd place in the state competition.
It went on to the national competition, but I never heard any more about it.
I'm actually really surprised that of all the poems I submitted to my English teacher, this was the one he choose to include in the competition. There was another I had done at about the same time called "I Saw Six White Ghosts" that I had put a lot more effort into and would have rather sent. But, apparently, he saw the same merit in it that the judges did.
In any event, for the first poetic submission, I'd better do the only one I got any kind of recognition for (although I never got an award, letter, or anything for it).
The Whale
It was many a long year ago (as any man can see),
That this great event happened, so listen you to me.
I was a’haulin lumber down at Brady shore working my fingers bare,
I had hardly a worry, and certainly never a care.
I ate my lunch and sat right down waitin to work again
When an old man sat next to me kissing a bottle of gin.
He told a right fine tale of pirates and of gold.
He spoke of countless treasures, of wine, and women he told.
Then he stood upon the pier sadness in his eyes,
As that gold could not be his, he was tellin no lies.
He cursed the god of heaven and swore the god of hell
He’d find that gold someday, someday before he fell.
Then the sea did boil a black shape then intrude,
A whale the size of Hades broke the solitude.
It was white for heaven, black for hell,
And with a mighty scream like a death nell,
Swallowed up the man who swore against both heaven and hell.
Then the whale spoke to me in a voice that shook my soul,
“Thus be such a mans fate.”
Then with a mighty roar and a tremendous splash that whale returned to the sea
And that is why I don’t value gold, or that whale might come for me.
D.O.P.R
The initial inspiration was a line from another poem by E. Poe.
I showed it to my Honors English teacher and unknown to me, he entered it into a statewide poetry contest. I only found this out when I was congratulated for winning 3rd place in the state competition.
It went on to the national competition, but I never heard any more about it.
I'm actually really surprised that of all the poems I submitted to my English teacher, this was the one he choose to include in the competition. There was another I had done at about the same time called "I Saw Six White Ghosts" that I had put a lot more effort into and would have rather sent. But, apparently, he saw the same merit in it that the judges did.
In any event, for the first poetic submission, I'd better do the only one I got any kind of recognition for (although I never got an award, letter, or anything for it).
The Whale
It was many a long year ago (as any man can see),
That this great event happened, so listen you to me.
I was a’haulin lumber down at Brady shore working my fingers bare,
I had hardly a worry, and certainly never a care.
I ate my lunch and sat right down waitin to work again
When an old man sat next to me kissing a bottle of gin.
He told a right fine tale of pirates and of gold.
He spoke of countless treasures, of wine, and women he told.
Then he stood upon the pier sadness in his eyes,
As that gold could not be his, he was tellin no lies.
He cursed the god of heaven and swore the god of hell
He’d find that gold someday, someday before he fell.
Then the sea did boil a black shape then intrude,
A whale the size of Hades broke the solitude.
It was white for heaven, black for hell,
And with a mighty scream like a death nell,
Swallowed up the man who swore against both heaven and hell.
Then the whale spoke to me in a voice that shook my soul,
“Thus be such a mans fate.”
Then with a mighty roar and a tremendous splash that whale returned to the sea
And that is why I don’t value gold, or that whale might come for me.
D.O.P.R
Category Poetry / Miscellaneous
Species Unspecified / Any
Size 118 x 120px
File Size 1.2 kB
It was partly inspired by Poe's poem "The Conqueror Worm", which is my favorite poem by Poe, as well as one of my favorite poems of all time.
THE CONQUEROR WORM
by Edgar Poe
1843
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama–oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!–it writhes!–with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out–out are the lights–out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
D.O.P.R
THE CONQUEROR WORM
by Edgar Poe
1843
Lo! 'tis a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.
Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly-
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Woe!
That motley drama–oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore,
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.
But see, amid the mimic rout
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!–it writhes!–with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.
Out–out are the lights–out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.
D.O.P.R
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