This piece is part of our ongoing series 'Poem of the Month'. Every month, the Writer's Edit team selects their favourite submission and provides detailed feedback to the author.
You can read more about Hannah's inspirations and literary influences in our exclusive interview.
'Nevermore' by Hannah Masterson
Once upon a midnight dreary, in the bathroom, weak and weary.
Over a quaint and curious object, attached to the bathroom floor
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping on my head so sore.
'Tis tequila’, I muttered, ‘tapping on my head so sore
Only that... or maybe more’.
Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the hot December,
And each Santa-Pub-Crawl goer danced their hearts out on the floor.
Eagerly, I wished the morrow; vainly I had sought to borrow
From some goon surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whose Tindr profile read 'Lenore'
Who won't call me anymore.
Deep into that dark bowl peering, long I sat there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams that I would not remember in the morn.
But the silence was unbroken, and my phone still gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was my message to Lenore.
Her I texted, and my phone bounced back my message to Lenore.
Out of credit, nothing more.
Then this iPhone 5 beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the wondrous realisation that her Facebook I could call.
‘Though thy screen be cracked and smeary, I can,’ I said, ‘call my dearie
(With a burp that's somewhat beer-y), and end our sorry war.’
Though with a retch, I dropped my phone into the toilet's shore.
Quoth my sad self: ‘Nevermore.’
And my hangover, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the pallid thumping brow that rests upon my head so sore.
And my eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
Red, angry, weepy, streaming, with the room spinning some more.
And my soul from out the shadows still lies groaning on the floor.
And I shall drink – nevermore!