est. 2007

"I feel that I deserve to win the free bottle of absinthe because I am sure that no one else re-wrote a famous poem by fellow Absintheur Edgar Allen Poe. Not only that, but I changed the motif of the poem from death, into a poem of discovery and life and love of absinthe! I hope this is one of the more unique entries you receive.  It’s admittedly not my most original work ever, but I thought it was fun to read and write. From one absinthe lover to another, I hope you and others enjoy reading it!"

The Raven, Revisited

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten drink-

While I nodded, nearly sipping, suddenly there came a dripping,

As of someone gently dripping, dripping water into my glass.

“Its some visitor,” I muttered, “Louching their absinthe glass-

      Only this, and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter

In there stepped a petite fairy of the saintly days of yore

Of the most obeisance made she; but a minute stopped or stayed she

But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my absinthe glass

Perched upon a bust of Van Gogh just above my absinthe glass

      Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this green fairy beguiling my sad fancy into smiling

By the flow of green decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy drink should be sugared and louched, thou,” I said, “art surely no fairy,

Ghastly green and ancient fairy wandering from the Belle Époque-

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Belle Époque shore?

      Quoth the fairy, “just one more”

Much I marveled this magical creature to hear discourse so gently

Though it’s answer little meaning- little relevancy bore;

For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

Was ever blessed with seeing fairy above his absinthe glass-

Fairy of bliss upon the sculptured bust above his absinthe glass

      With such name as “just one more”

But the fairy, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

Those three words, as if her soul in those three words she did not outpour.

Nothing farther that she uttered- Not a wing that she fluttered-

Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have louched before-

On the morrow she will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.”

      Then the fairy said “just one more”

Then, me thought, of the drink I grew fonder , perfumed with what, I pondered-

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the alpine herbs

“Fairy,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee- by these angels he hath sent thee

Respite- respite and nepenthe from thy memories of before;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind absinthe, and forget these memories of before!”

      Quoth the fairy “just one more”

And the Fairy, never gloating, still is floating, still is floating

On the bust of Van Gogh just above my absinthe glass;

And her eyes have all the seeming of an angel that is dreaming,

And the lamp light o’er her streaming shows her shadow on the floor

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

      Shall be lifted- forever more!