I had a hard time deciding how to review what is arguably my favorite beer. I decided to merge it with what is arguably my favorite literary work.
Seems appropriate.
The IPAven
Once upon a midday cheery, while I pondered drunk and beery,
Over many a quaint and curious glass that I’d forgotten to pour,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gentle rapping, rapping on the outside door,
Tis some visitor, I muttered, tis one of my friends rapping at the home’s front door,
Only this, and nothing more.
Ah distinctly I remember, it was on the brightest Easter,
And each separate dying beer can wrought its shell upon my floor,
Eagerly I fought the morrow, vainly I had sought to borrow,
From my brews surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lonely pour,
For this rare and radiant pale ale that the angels forgot to pour,
Nameless here, for ever more.
And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple label,
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic flavors that I’d never tasted before;
So that now, to still the beating of my drunken mind, I stood repeating,
Tis some housemate entreating entrance at the home’s front door,
Some drunk friend entreating entrance at the home’s front door,
This it is, and nothing more.
Presently my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
Bro, said I, or buddy, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, drunken when you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at the home’s front door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you – here I opened wide the door,
Deep Creek there, and nothing more.
Far across that lake peering, long I stood there, wondering, leering,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no sober man ever dared to dream before,
But the silence was unbroken, and the waters gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “please pour”,
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the words, “please pour!”
Merely this, and nothing more.
Back into the chamber turning, all my gas within me burping,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
Surely, said I, surely that is something in my brain come loose;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore,
Let my stomach be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
Tis DTs and nothing more!
Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a hizz and bubble,
In there dripped a stately pale ale of the saintly liquor store.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, into pint glass he did pour,
Settle on the oaken table, in this pint glass himself he poured –
Settled, and sat, and nothing more.
Then this yellowy beer beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the bitter and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
Though they head be short and sparing, thou, I said, art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and tasty haven from the darkened near lake shore,
Tell me what thy lordly name is on Boston’s Plutonian shore!
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”
Much I marveled this ungainly brew to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being,
Ever yet was cursed with seeing no beers in his fridge with which to pour,
Brew or yeast outside of glassware, somehow never being poured,
With such a name as, “Never pour.”
But the pale ale sitting lonely on the placid oak, spoke only,
Those two words, as if his soul with hops did store,
Nothing further then he uttered – not a bubble then he sputtered,
Till I scarcely more than muttered, “Other friends have drank before,”
On the morrow he will leave me, empty glass reflecting hopes as before,
Then the beer said, “Never pour.”
Startled at my buzz so broken by reply so aptly spoken,
Doubtless, said I, what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy brewmaster whom merciful disaster,
Swallowed fast and swallowed faster till his kegs one burden bore,
Till the dirges of his hope that metal keg bore,
Of, “Never-never pour.”
But the pale ale still beguiling my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned recliner in the front of beer and table and door,
The, upon the pleather sinking, I betook myself to linking,
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous beer of corner store,
What this hopped, flavored, tasty, and masterful beer of the corner store,
Meant in croaking, “Never pour.”
This I sat engaged in guessing, but no sober syllable expressing,
To the brew who’s fiery eyes now burned into my brain’s dull core,
This and more I sat divining, with my head from suds reclining,
On the cushion’s pleasing pleather lining that the IKEA lamp gloated o’er,
But whose pleasing pleather lining that the IKEA lamp gloated o’er,
She shall sip, ah, but never pour!
Then me though the liquid grew denser, flavored from unseen censur,
Dipped by Seraphim whose foot-falls trickled on the heady floor,
Wretch! I cried, they God hath lent thee – by these bottles he has sent thee,
Respite – respite and hydration from they memories of the beer I forgot to pour,
Quaff, oh quaff this kind Gatorade, and forget this misplaced pour,
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”
Prophet! Said I, thing of evil! – prophet still if beer or devil!
Whether ferment sent or whether fermentation toss thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this lake shore land enchanted,
On this home by horror haunted, tell me truly, I implore!
Is there – is there beer in Gilead? Tell me, tell me! I implore.
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”
Prophet! Said I, thing of evil! – prophet still if beer or devil!
By that lake that swells beside us, by that God we both adore,
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distance Boston,
It shall clasp a sainted ale of who I never got to pour –
Clasp a rare and flavorful ale, who they never let me pour?
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”
Be those words our sign of parting, beer or fiend! I shrieked upstarting –
Get thee back into the kettle, back to that fated liquor store,
Leave no bottle cap as token of that lie thy soul hath spoken,
Leave my drunkeness unbroken, quit the table on my floor,
Take thy hops from off my tongue, a take thy form from off my floor,
Quoth the pale ale, “Never pour.”
And the pale ale, never fizzing, still is sitting, still is sitting,
On the oaken oakheart table sitting on my living room floor,
And his suds have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the IKEA lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor,
And my drunken form lies in that shadow that is floating on the floor,
The beer is never opened, into my glass is never poured!
(Original – The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe. Beer cover version by Oliver Gray)
He claimed never would I drink his flesh, but into my glass his soul did pour.
Next up: Brooklyn Pennant Ale ’55!
Literature and Libation 