Corner Cafe Publishing:

*Site’s homepage temporarily poised for one SATURDAY VISITOR AWARDS contest


My poem, “Eiros Fae” uses its title, and references within, to fictionalize the name of an individual being visited by someone previously of friendship. As this was of my better attempts at similar metrics as well as similar rhyme scheme of the wording used by E. A. Poe, the poem also depicts a similar narrative as his epic classic, “The Raven.” As with this specific version of mine, however, the story’s narrative shares similar traits possibly identifying the storyteller to the stately raven, rather than to the poet of his story. In my own personal interpretation of the original version, the raven seemed to stalk the poet in question, whereas in Poe’s version, the raven seemed to me to come for the mere sake of tormenting the lamented.

In my own version, during and after the escapade, meanwhile complete with lamentations in the end, the stalker defines to the reader the remorse felt all along the way with such crooning. Besides initially to address some adorations for the feelings of adorations themselves, my more appropriate motivations with writing this specific work were much more intended for the purposes of addressing those feelings themselves, while making my attempt to relate with any single reader to one’s guilt ridden conscience from the humanly emotional desire of being alongside presence to another soul from time to lonely time. Strong as though the emotions in those times possibly become, remaining estranged to the affectioned individual addressed and finding amends to that is the main focus of the poem.

As for my reasons believing in this work as somehow a representation of Poe, my intention stands as an offshoot to his own struggle, as was apparent to myself alone throughout his readings, and not necessarily of Poe the human being, remaining that my humble opinion is of both his story and mine telling of remorsefully lamenting human mistakes through the course of one’s life when enduring stressful torments and losses. Losses and torments onto myself are perhaps menial by comparison to Poe’s own losses and torments, although there remains to me to some certainty, how for humanity set for struggle, degree of strife has always been besides the matter. Therefore, in summary, this work title is a story telling of sorrow, and the teller’s own forgiveness for that pity against that sorrow of the narrator’s own.

All in all, publication of this specific work of mine in honor of the great Poe, aside from the honor itself merely having made the specific work, would be of grand pleasure to me.


Kevin Clinton


“Eiros Fae”

Once upon romantics, school-tier had me blushing warm, while cooled, near heartsick thoughts of one great, jeweled, dear bride-struck girl called Eiros Fae.

Eiros, whom once passed-on judgements, given hers, in times of smudged, rinsed, tears-filled songs with blended, trudged, minced memory she squelched that day-

Songs which spoke my love, I’d gather, songs of hers, so squelched this day-

Only this, and thought’s array.


Memory now blended only stands, for now, how spelled she’d thrown me, leaving her an alimony stronger than conventions say.

Settled, speaking with the birds, and daring thoughts along the curd’s hand, writing for such travel’s herds, panned hourglasses drained away-

With the moment’s essence gone to where each word had sung away-

Toward some surely dreamt array.


Different altogether version no one form excepting hers can know, beyond assumed excursion, changed the way I’d learn to pray.

Momentary calls then, something known by me was soon there pumping, messaged by the beastly jumping manners which my thoughts do stay-

Some send by the beastly jumping manners as my thoughts did stay-

This I thought some grand array.


Many tongues from mine were speaking just for hers, to any seeking beasts which may have passed the streaking lights to come, while evening lay.

Lights I’d just imagined carry scripts wrote too, if only rarely, just as sounds take travels barely, straightly towards whom know they may.

Scarcely heard, though heard there still, mistakenly I thought they may-

Speak their conscience’s array.


Deeply sorry for confusions caused by me and my delusions, how my thoughts returned the fusions of desires, from my bay.

Parked in lots so far from homes to hers and mine, near catacombs, the sight of dove’s molts pounding domes a heavy brush-stroked, chambered fray.

Still, I thought, the dove’s molts shone for me, just as the sounds a-fray.

Surely, merely dream’s array.


Somehow though, my mind there stalked me, speaking only bird-spoke squawk, the atmosphere, each shadow’s walk began to form with evening’s grey.

“Hear,” I said aloud, “that sickly dove, it takes this message quickly, love yourselves in all forms, stick me now by any wished display.”

Then I spoke to all the world who’d listen, on my planned display-

Hoping for some formed array.


Soon from then, I walked the shore I’d walked and walked oft’ times, before tide strong as then and growing more, hide heaving as my breaths decay.

Savvy language crossed, a thought, when thinking of the song which brought then going to her, some distraught, pen-streaked, and darkly nighttime’s stray.

Some distraught, some darkness figure must’ve seemed me such the stray-

Some distraughtly bound array.


Language which would seem as mocking, while my walk was dearly docking, neared the stead where we’d made stocking, trying to translate blasé.

Lovesick messaged conversations still crossed hills, from hers to stations of my visits some durations, by my walks, for macramé.

Still, I’d missed conclusions and I’d missed the ends of macramé-

Merely close to some array.


Maybe she’d gone back to dreaming, thinking me some cleared gone gleaming conjured by imagined scheming thinking back some cabaret.

Something of degree with scare, for all I knew demanded, dared her opening the doors to terror, recognizing each worn clay-

Opening revealed to terror, recognizing each worn clay.

Known then, as my famed array.


But there, speaking mere translucence, I’d insanely talked of loose-ends, by allusive word’s abuse, trends calling spirit’s grand puree.

“You’ve been in the sand,” I started, “how I heard, let’s walk-” but darted eyes had stopped me, midway parted with attentions for to pay.

Strengths I’d always known of her, I’d known attention’s for to pay-

Startled grim, the new array.


Having gone as lingered business, maybe she was scorn for visits more than years, like some strange mistress girl for whom I’d spoken jay.

Maybe doves, miscomprehending all I’d said, were wrongly mending how I’d spoken, strongly tending, speaking scorns of strange orlay.

Maybe I’d myself seemed scorning speaking strongly strange orlay-

Merely by my faith’s array.


But the words I’d chosen said, my great deliberations wed, by any miens would sound of dread I missed through slight communique.

For I’d sounded, widely bringing anywhere the wretched singing done by her, to be a ringing of me some great dominie.

Any person spoken from those words would be no dominie-

Merely sorrow-filled array.


Thought me hard, myself the temping-mannered man, the bowed, unkempt thing, somewhat shaking off some dreamt sing-song requesting, “Fiancé?”

Struck by silence though, thereafter, half-expected mostly laughter, palely-turned, my lovely drafter cast me, seeking shrieked valet.

Knowing I’d gone this long lonely, leaving by my own valet-

Left me only strange array.


Then, methought, the world sufficed as having spoken of my vices, how I’d done so straightly nice, this bond far more than exposé.

Having argued strongly, clearly-spoken didn’t suit me dearly by ideas I’d conjured merely speaking to some grand touché.

Having any words described to state my soul, except, “Touché-”

Spoke, returning to array.


Muttering, she walked back home unto her stead and so my poem shunt wrote distracted onward roamed, runt-poised, compared to her beret.

Something there as easy as the way she wore her head, steadfast, a strong-willed person, left me brash, astoundingly to de-convey-

All my thoughts, of someone who’d accompany, to de-convey-

Sent me back to my array.


Then, I think, me dearly gone I spoke again, “Fae, nothing’s wrong, my words were maybe mixed, though dawned, shy having heard thee by soiree.”

Further then, I took these reasons, telling people why through seasons they can find me crying treasons anywhere the rain does spray-

Thinking this a scene for ages, as the rain began to spray-

Rains to strengthen grand array.


Driven mad she may be harkened to my prose and to the stark-end things I’ve said, since one day parked and with her by the medicine tray.

Maybe she’s savant-like, knowing all the things I think, bestowing, of my mien, desire showing just to be some protégé.

Still, I’d love her here by me, despite to be some protégé-

Far, far more than strange array.


Yet, for now, and never flitting, still I’m sitting, still I’m sitting, on a pedestal of bidding as a horse come drawn to hay.

Still I’ll call, and maybe seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming, out for “Eiros Fae,” the gleaming hopes that, “Mustn’t we, ‘No, nay?’”

Asking more her fangled answers, do I hear her still speak, “Nay.”

Harking merely strange array.