Number 292: Edgar Allan Poe "Ulalume"

Ulalume

The skies they were ashen and sober;
The leaves they were crisped and sere -
The leaves they were withering and sere;
It was night in the lonesome October
Of my most immemorial year:
It was hard by the dim lake of Auber,
In the misty mid region of Weir -
It was down by the dank tarn of Auber,
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

Here once, through and alley Titanic,
Of cypress, I roamed with my Soul -
Of cypress, with Psyche, my Soul.
These were days when my heart was volcanic
As the scoriac rivers that roll -
As the lavas that restlessly roll
Their sulphurous currents down Yaanek
In the ultimate climes of the pole -
That groan as they roll down Mount Yaanek
In the realms of the boreal pole.

Our talk had been serious and sober,
But our thoughts they were palsied and sere -
Our memories were treacherous and sere, -
For we knew not the month was October,
And we marked not the night of the year
(Ah, night of all nights in the year!) -
We noted not the dim lake of Auber
(Though once we had journeyed down here) -
Remembered not the dank tarn of Auber,
Nor the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir.

And now, as the night was senescent
And star-dials pointed to morn -
As the star-dials hinted of morn -
At the end of our path a liquescent
And nebulous lustre was born,
Out of which a miraculous crescent
Arose with a duplicate horn -
Astarte's bediamonded crescent
Distinct with its duplicate horn.

And I said: "She is warmer than Dian;
She rolls through an ether of sighs -
She revels in a region of sighs:
She has seen that the tears are not dry on
These cheeks, where the worm never dies,
And has come past the stars of the Lion
To point us the path to the skies -
To the Lethean peace of the skies -
Come up, in despite of the Lion,
To shine on us with her bright eyes -
Come up through the lair of the Lion,
With love in her luminous eyes."

But Psyche, uplifting her finger,
Said: "Sadly this star I mistrust -
Her pallor I strangely mistrust:
Ah, hasten! -ah, let us not linger!
Ah, fly! -let us fly! -for we must."
In terror she spoke, letting sink her
Wings until they trailed in the dust -
In agony sobbed, letting sink her
Plumes till they trailed in the dust -
Till they sorrowfully trailed in the dust.

I replied: "This is nothing but dreaming:
Let us on by this tremulous light!
Let us bathe in this crystalline light!
Its Sybilic splendour is beaming
With Hope and in Beauty tonight! -
See! -it flickers up the sky through the night!
Ah, we safely may trust to its gleaming,
And be sure it will lead us aright -
We safely may trust to a gleaming,
That cannot but guide us aright,
Since it flickers up to Heaven through the night."

Thus I pacified Psyche and kissed her,
And tempted her out of her gloom -
And conquered her scruples and gloom;
And we passed to the end of the vista,
But were stopped by the door of a tomb -
By the door of a legended tomb;
And I said: "What is written, sweet sister,
On the door of this legended tomb?"
She replied: "Ulalume -Ulalume -
'Tis the vault of thy lost Ulalume!"

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober
As the leaves that were crisped and sere -
As the leaves that were withering and sere;
And I cried: "It was surely October
On this very night of last year
That I journeyed -I journeyed down here! -
That I brought a dread burden down here -
On this night of all nights in the year,
Ah, what demon hath tempted me here?
Well I know, now, this dim lake of Auber -
This misty mid region of Weir -
Well I know, now, this dank tarn of Auber,
This ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir."

-- Edgar Allan Poe

Hap Notes: These gloomy verses were written by Poe expressly for recitation so if you haven't done so, go back and read it aloud. He wanted you to hear the words and their sounds– he even repeats them for dramatic effect. He's very fond of "L"s- Ulalume, Annabelle Lee, Eulalie, Lenore. It is commonly pronounced Ooh-La-Loom or Yoo-La-Loom. Gloomy sounding name, I think. Here is Jeff Buckley reading it with appropriately spooky music as a background:
www.youtube.com/watch?v=VesUJqm5rss. Pretty haunting stuff.

First, let's clarify a bit about the verses before I give you my shocking interpretation of the poem (not kidding– it's an unusual one.) The poem tells the story of a guy so distraught with grief at the loss of his love that he knows neither where he is wandering nor what day it is. He wanders through a gloomy forest by a lake (he's been there before but doesn't recall this until later). The lake and forest are fictional names made up by Poe (some scholars think they are possibly named for a composer (Auber) and an artist (Weir).) He travels with Psyche who is the personification of his soul/rational consciousness.

As he walks along he sees a vision in the sky of Astarte (who in Greek mythology becomes Aphrodite and in Roman mythology is Venus) a goddess of fertility, sexuality and, often, war. One of her symbols is the lion (although the pathway to which she beckons in the sky is probably the constellation Leo). The "lethean" peace refers to the mythic waters of the river Lethe and its powers to make one forget if one drinks from its waters. Astarte is seductive and lovely but Psyche is wary and begs him to go away from this place and this vision. It's interesting to note that Poe felt his rational/soul is this lovely goddess with wings who was, in mythology, the wife of Cupid after a great deal of trouble with-- hmmm-- Venus. Although, Psyche is a generally accepted word for the soul/companion in most explications of this poem.

Let's get out of that tangled forest and go on. As the speaker of the poem walks down the path urged by Astarte, he comes to the door of a tomb and realizes with horror that it is the tomb of his dead love Ulalume that he laid to rest a year ago to the day. All his memories come flooding back and he realizes he has been down this path before, by this lake, when he buried her the year before. The horror, the horror.

Except....

(Don't read the next part of my explication if you like the idea of a fella so stricken with grief over the loss of his beloved. Seriously. Don't. You'll just hate me and I'll feel bad that I ruined something you loved.)

I have this feeling every time I read this poem that the speaker isn't telling us something very important about his grief. He keeps referring to his feelings as volcanic and lava like in arctic cold settings. Maybe it's that word "treacherous" and the way he calls the body of his love a "dread burden" that strikes me as odd but it seems as though the speaker in the poem may have been responsible in some way for the death of Ulalume. He seems, at first, very taken with Astarte, a goddess of sensuality, beauty and, yes, sex. His "good girl" conscious tells him to get away from her. I get the feeling that this guy is afraid of the sexuality of women and wants them to be like his Psyche. Ah, but he's seduced by the sensual. So, can you see where this fella could be the kind of guy who loved a sensual, sexual woman and then maybe, killed her from his own twisted view of love and sex? And then, wandered around in delirious grief for his misdeed– because he did love her but she had power over him. And still does. And who the hell calls the body of a loved one a "dread burden"? Sounds more like a murdered corpse. Just sayin'. And maybe the tomb brings back his addled guilty memory of the dastardly deed done in a fit of passion.

I don't think Poe intended this interpretation, by the way, just telling you what I think when I read the poem. I think my version is scarier, too.

Happy Halloween, by the way. Hope you eat some candy and read more poetry (sounds like a perfect holiday to me.)

Here's where we've talked about Poe before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/10/number-287-edgar-allan-poe-raven.html

Number 291: Robert Frost "Ghost House"

Ghost House

I Dwell in a lonely house I know 

That vanished many a summer ago, 

And left no trace but the cellar walls,

And a cellar in which the daylight falls,

And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow. 



O'er ruined fences the grape-vines shield 

The woods come back to the mowing field;

The orchard tree has grown one copse

Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops; 

The footpath down to the well is healed.



I dwell with a strangely aching heart

In that vanished abode there far apart

On that disused and forgotten road 

That has no dust-bath now for the toad. 

Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;



The whippoorwill is coming to shout

And hush and cluck and flutter about: 

I hear him begin far enough away

Full many a time to say his say

Before he arrives to say it out. 



It is under the small, dim, summer star.

I know not who these mute folk are 

Who share the unlit place with me-- 

Those stones out under the low-limbed tree

Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar. 



They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,

Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,-- 

With none among them that ever sings,

And yet, in view of how many things,

As sweet companions as might be had.

-- Robert Frost

Hap Notes: Well, I suppose everything is open to interpretation but after reading a good deal of summaries of this poem in books and online I have to point out something that I think is perfectly clear in the first two verses of this poem that each interpretation fails to see: The speaker in this poem is dead.

"I dwell" present tense. "That vanished" past tense. I guess the speaker could be living in a ruined exposed cellar next to a graveyard but this seems highly unlikely considering that Frost wrote the poems of "A Boys Will" (his first book of poem published in 1915) about New England – a place where one could not live in a wrecked open cellar for very long once the winter hit (although the poem is set in summer). The speaker is certainly giving us a metaphor for life in this poem but the word "dwell," on the surface, at least (ah yes, we'll get to the next layer in a moment), implies residency. (And remember the title of the poem.)

Now, there is another meaning to the word "dwell" which means to mentally linger, to think on – almost to obsess– about something. This has its place in this poem but not on the surface. The speaker in the poem gives us far too much information about the current state of the area for us to assume he is just "dwelling" there emotionally; the bats coming out at night, the very detailed account of a whippoorwill calling from a distance, the one dim summer star overhead. One who is merely thinking dwells ON something, not in it.

The nameless quiet folks in the graveyard have, among their number, a young girl and a boy, though none of them sing like the whippoorwill does, or speaks. Why do you think Frost says they are "tireless"? Why does he particularly point out the boy and girl?

There is a devastating loneliness in this poem; the empty ruined cellar, the one bird, the "healed" path, the one dim star. And only the bird, the living creature, tries to assert himself with his voice. And if you've ever heard a whippoorwill, you know that it's an insistent song. Here it is: www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Whip-poor-will/sounds The whippoorwill is nocturnal and calls mostly at dusk so we also know this poem is set, with it's one dim star, in a gloomy sunset.

What, in this poem, is Frost saying about life and human company in this poem? What happened to the house? The speaker? Why does the speaker's heart ache? How much do we ever get to know about a person? How does this poem depict human life and its transitive frailty?

We've done a lot of Frost, here are a few of them: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2010/12/number-7-robert-frost-design_14.html

and happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/01/number-51-robert-frost-choose-something.html

and happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/03/number-93-robert-frost-out-out.html

Number 290: Agha Shahid Ali "The Wolf's Postscript to 'Little Red Riding Hood'"

The Wolf's Postscript to 'Little Red Riding Hood'

First, grant me my sense of history:

I did it for posterity,
for kindergarten teachers

and a clear moral:

Little girls shouldn't wander off

in search of strange flowers,

and they mustn't speak to strangers.


And then grant me my generous sense of plot:

Couldn't I have gobbled her up

right there in the jungle?

Why did I ask her where her grandma lived?

As if I, a forest-dweller,

didn't know of the cottage

under the three oak trees

and the old woman lived there

all alone?

As if I couldn't have swallowed her years before?


And you may call me the Big Bad Wolf,

now my only reputation.

But I was no child-molester
though you'll agree she was pretty.




And the huntsman:

Was I sleeping while he snipped

my thick black fur

and filled me with garbage and stones?

I ran with that weight and fell down,

simply so children could laugh

at the noise of the stones

cutting through my belly,

at the garbage spilling out

with a perfect sense of timing,

just when the tale

should have come to an end.

--Agha Shahid Ali

Hap Notes: Agha Shahid Ali (1949-2001) was born in New Delhi. His father was from a Kashmir family that strongly believed in education and Ali's grandmother was one of the first women to be educated in Kashmir (side note: this is where we get the name for cashmere– from the Kashmir goats first found in the region and prized for their soft fur underlayer used for the fabric). Ali's father went to Ball State for a while and so the poet lived some of his youth in Muncie, Indiana. After his family returned to Delhi he went to universities there and returned to the U.S. for his doctorate in English at Penn State.

Ali held teaching positions at the University of Delhi, Penn State, SUNY Binghamton, Princeton University, Hamilton College, Baruch College, University of Utah, and Warren Wilson College. He is the author of a dozen books, most of them award winning poetry. He was one of the first poets to make the ghazal ( a Persian form of poetry that uses repetition, rhyme and couplets) a familiar form in the U.S.

His awards include fellowships from The Pennsylvania Council on the Arts, the Bread Loaf Writers' Conference, the Ingram-Merrill Foundation, the New York Foundation for the Arts and the Guggenheim Foundation and a Pushcart Prize. He died very young, at 52, from a cancerous brain tumor.

In today's poem we see the wolf in the famous fairytale explaining, in so many words, how "bad" is a necessary part of good. There is no Jesus story without Judas, there is no cautionary tale of Red Riding Hood without the wolf. Ali's wolf goes so far as to say he purposely sacrificed himself for the moral of the tale, future generations and the amusement of children.

The Red Riding Hood tale is a strange one in many cultures. In Perrault's version, "Le Petit Chaperon Rouge" (side note: yes, chaperon is a cap with a small cape attached for protection from the cold and it is where we get the word chaperone– someone who protects us) the story is supposed to serve as a warning to young maidens to beware of predatory men (a girl who lost her virginity at the time, circa late 1600s, was said to have "seen the wolf"). Perrault's "Red" gets into bed with the wolf and gets eaten.

Perrault explains his tale: "From this story one learns that children, especially young lasses, pretty, courteous and well-bred, do very wrong to listen to strangers, And it is not an unheard thing if the Wolf is thereby provided with his dinner. I say Wolf, for all wolves are not of the same sort; there one with an amenable disposition — neither noisy, nor hateful, nor angry, but tame, obliging and gentle, following the young maids in the streets, even into their homes. Alas! Who does not know that these gentle wolves are of all such creatures the most dangerous!"

In other versions of the tale "Red" eats part of the grandma, becoming a cannibal, before the wolf eats her. The red color in the story stands for a great deal but it all boils down to blood, pretty much.

When I was a kid, no eating took place in the story. Grandma got locked in the closet and a huntsman came in the nick of time to kill the wolf.

Sometimes the wolf ate the grandma (and "Red") but the huntsman comes in and cuts open the wolf releasing them both.

All in all, Red Riding Hood is a pretty scary story full of sex and violence (like most fairytales, I suppose. See Bruno Bettelheim's "The Uses of Enchantment" or Sondheim's musical "Into the Woods")

It's Saturday so here are our cartoons, music and etc:

First, Sam the Sham and the Pharohs with "Little Red Riding Hood" : www.youtube.com/watch?v=GM8_v4AwltM&feature=related

Here's Bugs Bunny with "Little Red Riding Rabbit": www.youtube.com/watch?v=EmvuAn3mz5E

Here's one of my all-time faves–the Tex Avery classic "Red Hot Riding Hood": www.youtube.com/watch?v=QaS6wMQOiNk

This is a very unusual Walter Lanz Dinky Doodle Red Riding Hood cartoon from 1925:www.youtube.com/watch?v=qot-vI00Ih0

A Walter Lanz 1953 Red Riding Hood with a Coke: www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVZd-HtT518

Always the voice of narrator Edward Everett Horton amuses in Rocky and Bulwinkle's "Fractured Fairytales" version of Red Riding Hood: www.youtube.com/watch?v=0C4xH216IBo

Remember this movie from 1984, The Company of Wolves? (predating Twilight with its sexual subtext):
www.youtube.com/watch?v=HGhqfFvb4j0

Oh ba-ruther–only a glimpse of Gary Oldman saves this from total uselessness (although The Muppets trailer is pretty okay): www.youtube.com/watch?v=PM8V3cHdSC4

I suppose since it's Halloween we ought to at least nod to Wolfmother and "Witchcraft": www.youtube.com/watch?v=JgXzAu1cggc&feature=related

Have you seen these thematic Living Dead dolls? This is Red Riding Hood and the Wolf: www.youtube.com/watch?v=hAC-rU76EuM&feature=fvsr

It's a loose connection but so worth it to hear, Mitch Ryder and the Detroit Wheels with "C.C. Rider" (sometimes called "Jenny Take a Ride"): www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9eWGdJIW74&feature=related

Number 289: John Greenleaf Whittier "The Pumpkin"

The Pumpkin

Oh, greenly and fair in the lands of the sun,

The vines of the gourd and the rich melon run, 

And the rock and the tree and the cottage enfold, 

With broad leaves all greenness and blossoms all gold,

Like that which o'er Nineveh's prophet once grew,

While he waited to know that his warning was true, 

And longed for the storm-cloud, and listened in vain 

For the rush of the whirlwind and red fire-rain. 
 



On the banks of the Xenil the dark Spanish maiden 

Comes up with the fruit of the tangled vine laden; 

And the Creole of Cuba laughs out to behold 

Through orange-leaves shining the broad spheres of gold;

Yet with dearer delight from his home in the North,

On the fields of his harvest the Yankee looks forth,

Where crook-necks are coiling and yellow fruit shines, 

And the sun of September melts down on his vines. 

Ah! on Thanksgiving day, when from East and from West,

From North and from South comes the pilgrim and guest; 

When the gray-haired New Englander sees round his board 

The old broken links of affection restored; 

When the care-wearied man seeks his mother once more,

And the worn matron smiles where the girl smiled before; 

What moistens the lip and what brightens the eye, 

What calls back the past, like the rich Pumpkin pie? 



Oh, fruit loved of boyhood! the old days recalling, 

When wood-grapes were purpling and brown nuts were falling!

When wild, ugly faces we carved in its skin,

Glaring out through the dark with a candle within!

When we laughed round the corn-heap, with hearts all in tune, 

Our chair a broad pumpkin, - our lantern the moon, 

Telling tales of the fairy who travelled like steam

In a pumpkin-shell coach, with two rats for her team! 


Then thanks for thy present! none sweeter or better

E'er smoked from an oven or circled a platter!

Fairer hands never wrought at a pastry more fine, 

Brighter eyes never watched o'er its baking, than thine!

And the prayer, which my mouth is too full to express, 

Swells my heart that thy shadow may never be less, 

That the days of thy lot may be lengthened below, 

And the fame of thy worth like a pumpkin-vine grow, 

And thy life be as sweet, and its last sunset sky 

Golden-tinted and fair as thy own Pumpkin pie!

--John Greenleaf Whittier

Hap Notes: John Greenleaf Whittier (1807-1892) is remembered for his staunch abolitionist writings as much, or more, than for his poetry now. He was an editor, writer and poet and he used the pen to forward the cause of freedom. He was born and raised a Quaker and took the principles of the Quakers to heart.

Folks who went to school in the first half of the 20th century, were often assigned to memorize a Whittier poem or two, most notably "Barbara Frietchie" ("Shoot if you must this old gray head but spare your country's flag," she said") and "Maud Muller" ("For of all sad words of tongue or pen/ The saddest are these: "It might have been.") and "Dear Lord and Father of Mankind." Here is the poem, set to music and now a somewhat familiar hymn, being sung in Westminster Abbey: www.youtube.com/watch?v=faNij71hh7o

In today's poem, Whittier likens the leaves of the pumpkin to the plant that grew over the head of the reluctant biblical prophet Jonah. (Quick recap for the Bible impaired: Jonah was asked by God to go to Ninevah and tell the people to repent or deal with the Lord's anger. Jonah didn't want to go- we aren't sure why until the end of the story- and tries to escape on a boat. God makes the sea to churn, Jonah gets tossed off the boat - he tells the crew to do it, he knows it's God's wrath at him that is causing it. He gets swallowed by a whale which he lives inside for three days until he tells God he will go to Ninevah and do as he is asked. He gets there, tells the people to repent or else God will send down a can of whupass. Immediately the people repent. Disgruntled, Jonah goes out to the city gates and sits there. He tells God, "This is exactly why I didn't want to come here- I knew they'd repent and you would spare them- what a waste of time." A vine grows up alongside him and shades him in the hot sun. The next day as he sits there the vine is destroyed by a worm. This vexes Jonah and when God asks him what is the matter, Jonah expresses his anger over the destruction of his shade plant. God says, "So, nu, you have compassion for a plant but not the thousands of people in Nineveh?")

The fairy tale he is talking about in the poem is Cinderella. Mostly, though, Whittier is extolling the virtues of Fall and the delicious memories and taste of pumpkin pie. He compares the pride of the Spaniard growing pumpkins (which are not really as round or orange as American ones) with the Yankee farmer's. He also talks about the American Jack-o-lantern and the candle's glow inside the carved out orange squash. (In England and Ireland they do the same with turnips or beets.) Pumpkins can be grown, FYI, on every continent except Antarctica.

Pumpkins are thought to have originated in North America.

Here's a good Whittier quote: "You don't always win your battles, but it's good to know you fought."

You can find more Whittier here: www.poetry-archive.com/w/whittier_john_greenleaf.html

Number 288: Douglas Goetsch "The Kingdom"

The Kingdom


A little girl in her Halloween princess costume,
purple and white, thin satin or polyester,
a slit in the sleeve, a sweatshirt underneath
her mother made her wear over her screams.
Still, she couldn't be more excited, waving
her cardboard wand. Children need so little;
pennies for the fountain, bread for the sparrows.
You tell them to sit on the floor and they do.
Even rich kids know there's nothing better
than a tree house, creaking in the wind.
Talking into tin cans, gazing down at the rain,
they understand what a kingdom is, though they
cant know they'll spend their lives trying
to get back to that high throne, that cardboard
wand with which they conjured a future
so different from the one that arrived.

-- Douglas Goetsch

Hap Notes: What did you think you would be when you were a child? How big was the world to you then? Every person you meet was once a child, and in many ways, still is. When you talk to a person it's not a bad idea to remember that you are talking to a child who had fears, hopes and dreams and all those things are still inside them somewhere.

One's dreams and thoughts from childhood are often preserved, like an old dried corsage now battered and hardly recognizable, but still there. Some folks find that circumstances in life have battered all the child-like hope out of them. These people are often filled with resentment, anger and bitter sadness. They don't want to see anybody else's dreams come true since theirs did not. These are the people who will say about some enthusiastic person,"They'll get THAT beaten out of them by life, just wait and see." As if life were some kind of punishment. If it was, why would we think otherwise as a child? What is it about life that makes it seem to some like drudgery as they age?

The children in today's poem don't know this will happen yet but all of us on the other side of childhood watch them with a certain joy in their happiness and a sorrow about the loss of our own childish hopes and dreams.

What is the poet saying about adulthood in this poem? How is talking into tin cans different from using a cell phone, not physically but otherwise.? What kind of a house is in a tree? What is the poet saying about the "cardboard" magic of childhood? What is he saying about our cardboard lives? Why is this poem called "The Kingdom"?

Here is where we have talked about Goetsch before: happopoemouse.blogspot.com/2011/10/number-286-douglas-goetsch-smell-and.html

Number 287: Edgar Allan Poe "The Raven"

The Raven

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"'Tis some visitor," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door -
Only this, and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore -
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating,
"'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door -
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; -
This it is, and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"- here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!" -
Merely this, and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice:
Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more."

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore;
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door -
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door -
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore.
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the Nightly shore -
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl 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 blest with seeing bird above his chamber door -
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered- not a feather then he fluttered -
Till I scarcely more than muttered, "other friends have flown before -
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before."
Then the bird said, "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore -
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never - nevermore'."

But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;
Then upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore -
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then methought the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose footfalls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite - respite and nepenthe, from thy memories of Lenore:
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! -
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted -
On this home by horror haunted- tell me truly, I implore -
Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil - prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore -
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that word our sign in parting, bird or fiend," I shrieked, upstarting -
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!- quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming,
And the lamplight o'er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted - nevermore!

-- Edgar Allan Poe

Hap Notes: Surely most people know the work of Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), a writer who not only expanded the literature of horror and the supernatural, but also pretty much invented and refined the detective story. He was also a poet, editor, journalist and critic. In America, he was one of the first writers to live by his writing work as his sole means of support.

The reports of Poe's drinking and debauchery are greatly exaggerated and were written by his enemies from jealousy and revenge. Poe was not a drug addict. He had a few drinks now and then, yes. Okay, more than a few. He was a melancholy fella. He was often erratic and a bit odd. His parents were professional actors; his dad left when he was merely a babe and his mother died not long after that from tuberculosis. He was raised by foster parents. The plot thickens, eh?

In today's haunting poem (it virtually made his reputation when it was printed in the newspaper) a man saddened by the death of his beautiful beloved, Lenore, is driven to madness by a mysterious talking raven (ravens and crows can be taught to speak). When he talks of the bust of Pallas, he is talking about Pallas Athena, the Greek goddess of wisdom, courage, inspiration, strength, female arts, crafts, justice, and skill. Pluto and Plutonian are references to the underworld, Hades. The reference to a "balm in Gilead" is a biblical one. It refers to a curative ointment of sorts, made from the resin of a tree, and is from the book of Jeremiah: "Is there no balm in Gilead? Is there no physician there? Why then is there no healing for the wounds of God's people?"

One always wonders what the narrator of the poem was reading. Some suggest a book on the occult but the speaker in the poem says he was seeking to find comfort in the books so I'd wager they were wrong. He mentions the Bible in his quote about Gilead but he also calls his reading matter "many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore" so we'd be safe in assuming he did not mean the bible. (I suppose I could work myself up to express certain parallels between good and evil in this poem but I'll let you do that.)

Poe felt very strongly, and wrote so in essays, that a poem's meaning should just underlie the surface. So. What is under the surface in this poem?

Poe is arguably one of the most influential novelists/poets ever produced in America.

It's Saturday so here are some cartoons and Poe related stuff:

First off, here's Christopher Walken reading "The Raven": www.youtube.com/watch?v=cLSmhpwLdEQ&feature=related

And Vincent Price: www.youtube.com/watch?v=27ZvwQd-wXw

and James Earl Jones reciting it on a Simpsons Halloween special: www.youtube.com/watch?v=VxSCtRxBhj4&feature=related

and Christopher Lee: www.youtube.com/watch?v=MyxsPHWSxlY&feature=related

and John De Lancie: www.youtube.com/watch?v=rIckeYVuMC0

and John Astin: www.youtube.com/watch?v=ACUxJ6fq2IY

and Lou Reed's version- Surprisingly, it is in many ways one of the best interpretations.: www.youtube.com/watch?v=rrys8knY53I

Here is Tim Burton's animated film about a child named Vincent whose leanings fall somewhere between Poe and Price: www.youtube.com/watch?v=n0zkFo3IkcY&feature=related

A chilling animated film of "The Raven": www.youtube.com/watch?v=oNsEh1FkJCA&feature=fvwrel

And Tiny Toons: www.youtube.com/watch?v=v57cDPH1108&feature=related

Here's "The Raven" by the Alan Parsons Project: www.youtube.com/watch?v=YAE1XTvKLXA&feature=related

And here's Poe (no relation- I think her name is supposed to stand for Peace On Earth) with "Hello" : www.youtube.com/watch?v=SAVgJQVo2oE

And, what the hell, Liz Phair (who is still going strong and reprises this song often in concert) doing "Mesmerizing" from her extraordinary and original low-fi classic "Exile In Guyville": http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=v9Lrr1iUJMQ Because I like it.

The masthead today is the Gustave Dore illustration for the book in which this poem first appeared(1884) and an inset of a Raven's face.

Number 286: Douglas Goetsch "Smell and Envy" and John Clare "Evening Primrose"

Smell and Envy

You nature poets think you've got it, hostaged

somewhere in Vermont or Oregon,

so it blooms and withers only for you,

so all you have to do is name it: primrose

- and now you're writing poetry, and now

you ship it off to us, to smell and envy.

But we are made of newspaper and smoke

and we dunk your roses in vats of blue.

Birds don't call, our pigeons play it close

to the vest. When the moon is full

we hear it in the sirens. The Pleiades

you could probably buy downtown. Gravity

is the receiver on the hook. Mortality

we smell on certain people as they pass.

-- Douglas Goetsch

Evening Primrose

When once the sun sinks in the west,

And dewdrops pearl the evening's breast;

Almost as pale as moonbeams are,

Or its companionable star,

The evening primrose opes anew

Its delicate blossoms to the dew;

And, hermit-like, shunning the light,

Wastes its fair bloom upon the night,

Who, blindfold to its fond caresses,

Knows not the beauty it possesses;

Thus it blooms on while night is by;

When day looks out with open eye,

Bashed at the gaze it cannot shun,

It faints and withers and is gone.

-- John Clare

Hap Notes: I don't suppose Goetsch is talking about Clare here, I just thought the juxtaposition was interesting. Douglas Goetsch is a gifted teacher in addition to being the award-winning author of a half dozen poetry books. He taught at New York City public schools as well as at writer's workshops throughout the U.S. at various universities. He is the founder of Jane Street Press. His poetry is luminous, clever and well thought out. He is also an excellent prose writer, especially about poetry.

You can find more Goetsch here: www.janestreet.org/samples.html

John Clare (1793-1864) was born in Helpston, England. His family was poor and his parents were illiterate. He went to some bit of formal schooling and reputedly wrote his poetry after his manual laborer jobs ploughing and threshing. In his life time he had several books of poetry published. He struggled with being an outsider to the literati of England ( he was called the "peasant poet") and an outsider to the rank and file workers amongst whom he had grown up. He suffered later in life from delusions and depression. He died in the Northamptonshire County General Lunatic Asylum.

You can find more Clare here: www.johnclare.info/poems.html

In the two poems, I think it is obvious that Goetsch is a city boy and Clare is a country boy. Goetsch is making a very good point about the "observational" poetry of "nature lovers" who write a few lines about flowers or birds to which many city dwellers cannot relate or, at least, relate to with a certain amount of tough derision. That poetry often seems to be redolent with saccharine idyllic word pictures. (Although I am duty bound to point out that there is plenty of wildlife in the city- hawks, squirrels, birds, raccoons and even rabbits. There is wildlife everywhere on the planet if you look for it.)

Clare is talking about a beautiful night-blooming flower that never sees the sun. Which, I suppose, could be a really good analogy for city dwellers who do not get a chance to see the natural world much. Or an analogy to one whose potential is somewhat hidden from public daytime viewing, much as Clare was as a youth.

The masthead is a close up of a primrose. The inset is Goetsch (top) and Clare (bottom).