This month we celebrate the work of Edgar Allan Poe, whose name has become almost synonymous with horror fiction. He is indeed a fit property for discussion for the month of October although, perhaps, he should be better known for raising short fiction from the anecdotal form it had previously encompassed, for invention of mystery or detective fiction, for literary criticism and theory, and for his lyrical poetry.

Edgar Allan Poe was born on January 19, 1809, the middle child of three born to Elizabeth Arnold Hopkins and David Poe, who were touring actors. His father either died or abandoned the family shortly after Edgar's birth, speculation suggests the former, and his mother died in 1811 at the age of twenty-four from tuberculosis. During her illness, his elder brother had been parceled off to his father's relations. Subsequent to her death, his infant sister Rosalie was taken by a family named Mackenzie of Richmond, Virginia and Edgar was taken into the home of John Allan, a prosperous merchant also residing in Richmond, Virginia. Mrs. Allan, who was childless, wanted to adopt young Edgar. It was she who had him baptized as the name we know him today.

Although his early childhood is considered otherwise uneventful, there is evidence that Mrs. Allan spoiled him considerably. There is also evidence, according to various letters that were exchanged between John Allan and Edgar later in life, that the relationship with his foster father was always somewhat strained. The suggestion is that John Allan felt the boy would never do well owing to his parentage, i.e.: actors were not held in high regard. However, the elder man did enroll the boy in schools in England when his tobacco export firm transplanted his household there for a time (1815-1820) and the school records suggest that he did consider the boy to be his son--Poe was enrolled as "Master Allan."

Some financial difficulty caused John Allan to cut short his business dealings in England and withdraw Edgar from school in 1820. They returned to America, where Edgar continued his education at home schooling and private academies. He also earned himself a reputation as a flirt by regaling nearby girls' academy students with lyrical verse of his own pen.

In 1826, at age 17, Edgar entered the University of Virginia where he was considered a good student for his brief sojourn there. While in Richmond, he courted and became engaged to Sarah Elmira Royster. He also accrued a huge gambling debt which his benefactor, John Allan refused to honor. His reveling, gambling, and indebtedness also did not please his fiance, who eventually refused to see him. He was, thus, required to quit his education after only one year and to break his engagement.

Lacking any other means of supporting himself, he enlisted in the army. Soon after, he temporarily reconciled with John Allan. Allan secured Poe's release from the army and an appointment for him to West Point although he refused to provide any other financial support. This career, too, proved to be very short-lived. After only six months, Poe was dismissed from West Point for disobedience of orders. However, his fellow cadets were apparently so impressed with his literary talents that they contributed the funds for the publication of Poems by Edgar A. Poe ... Second Edition (1831)--actually a third edition after Tamerlane (1827) and Al Aaraaf, Tamerlane, and Minor Poems (1829), both self-published. This volume contained the famous "To Helen" and "Israfel," poems that show the restraint and the calculated musical effects of language that were to characterize his poetry.

After leaving West Point, Poe moved to Baltimore to reside with his widowed aunt, Maria Clem (a sister of his father) and her daughter, Virginia. He, also, began to support himself as a fiction writer. Five of his stories--all comic or satiric--were published in the Philadelphia Saturday Courier in 1832. MS. Found in a Bottle (1933) won a $50 prize given by the Baltimore Saturday Visitor (the reader should appreciate that such dollar amounts were considered sizable in their day).

In 1835, he, his aunt, and Virginia moved to Richmond, where he secured the position as editor of the Southern Literary Messenger and married Virginia, then not yet fourteen years of age and thirteen years his junior. Here, he honed his writing skills and won a following as a respected literary critic. His most horrifying tale, Berenice was first published in the Messenger, but most of his contributions were serious, analytical, and critical reviews. Unfortunately, his approach and his views often conflicted with those of the owner and publisher, who also objected to Poe's excessive drinking. By 1837, he no longer held his position with that publication. Paradoxically, the same issue which announced the ending of his employment as editor also carried the first installment of his long prose tale, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym, five of his reviews, and two of his poems.

First in New York City (1837), then in Philadelphia (1838-44), and again in New York (1844-49), Poe sought to establish himself as a force in literary journalism. Always, his success could only be termed as moderate. He did succeed, however, in formulating influential literary theories and in demonstrating mastery of the forms he favored--highly musical poems and short prose narratives. During this period, he wrote and published Ligeia (1838), the tale Poe considered his finest; The Fall Of The House Of Usher (1839), which was to become one of his most famous stories; The Murders in the Rue Morgue (1841), sometimes considered the first detective story, and the poetic works "The Raven" (1845) and "The Bells" (1849).

Complicating his life, however, Virginia fell ill with tuberculosis in 1842 and lapsed into a wasting decline. Her illness, it is said, hastened Edgar into troubling bouts with alcohol. When Virginia died in 1847 at the age twenty-four (the same age his mother had been), Poe was devasted. Although he continued to write and lecture, his health suffered and he was frequently so depressed and ill that he could not make engagements. At this time, too, the literary movement in the U.S. had begun to shift. The small magazines and publications were going out of business or were often so financially troubled that they could not pay him. He briefly attempted to He spent much of his time travelling on the lecture circuit which aggravated his ill-health considerably.

In November 1848, Poe became engaged to the poet Sarah Helen Whitman of Providence. She much admired his talents and thought she could rehabilitate him. The engagement lasted barely a month. His name was similarly connected to that of a wealthy widow of Baltimore that same year with some controversy. But, again, nothing came of it.

In 1849, he renewed his acquaintance with his former sweetheart of 1826, the former Sarah Elmira Royster, now Mrs. A.B. Shelton of Richmond, Virginia and recently widowed. Eventually, their renewed relationship led to a proposal of marriage and plans were going forward for the wedding despite Poe's illness when he died in Baltimore. According to reports, he was found unconscious in the street and was taken to the home of a nearby surgeon. There he languished in coma for several days. In a brief obituary, the Baltimore Clipper reported that Poe had died of "congestion of the brain." The actual nature of the malady remains as much a mystery today as it apparently was to the physcian who treated him then. He was forty years of age.

Resource consulted:

Edgar Allan Poe [http://bau2.uibk.ac.at/sg/poe.Bio.html], Robert Regan, author.
Biography of Edgar Allan Poe [http://www.pambytes.com/poe/bio.html]

Listing of Some Works/

Poems: A Dream A Dream Within A Dream Al Aaraaf Alone Annabel Lee Bells Bridal Ballad The City in the Sea The Conqueror Worm Eldorado Israfel The Raven Romance The Spirits of the Dead Tamerlane The Valley of Unrest To F--s S. O--d To Helen To The River-- To M-- To One In Paradise Ulalume . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Stories: The Angel of The Odd The Assignation The Balloon-Hoax Berenice The Black Cat Bon-Bon The Cask of Amontillado A Descent Into The Maelstrom The Devil in the Belfry Doctor Tarr and Professor Fether The Domain of Arnheim Eureka - A Prose Poem The Facts in the Case of M. Valdemar The Fall of the House of Usher Four Beasts In One The Homo Cameleopard The Gold Bug Hans Phaall Hop-Frog How to Write a Blackwood Article The Imp of the Perverse King Pest Landor's Cottage The Landscape Garden Ligeia Lionizing Literary Life of Thingum Bob, ESQ. The Man of the Crowd The Man That Was Used Up Marginalia The Masque of Red Death Mellonta Tauta Mesmeric Revelation Metzengerstein Morella Morning On The Wissahiccon Ms. Found in a Bottle Murders in the Rue Morgue The Mystery of Marie Roget Mystification The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym Never Bet The Devil Your Head The Oblong Box The Oval Portrait The Pit and the Pendulum A Predicament The Premature Burial The Purloined Letter Shadow - A Parable Silence - A Fable Some Words With a Mummy The Spectacles The Tell-Tale Heart The Thousand-and-Second Tale of Scheherazade William Wilson

(Message #1704, 1705, and 1706; 10/03/1999)

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 someone gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. " 'T is 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. " 'T is some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door-- Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door--               That 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 the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering fearing. Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal 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--               'T is the wind an 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 a bove 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 marveled 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 beeing Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door-- Bird or beast upon the sculplured 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 outpoor. Nothing further then he uttered, not a feather then he fluttered-- Till I scarcely more then 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 utteres is it 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 the 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 lamp-light gloated o'er But whose velvet-violet lining with lamp-light gloating o'er               She shall press, ah, nevermore!

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

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil! -- prophet still, if bird of devil! Whether Tempter sent, or whatever tempest tossed thee 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 of devil! By that Heaven that bends above us -- by that God we both adore-- Tell his 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 of 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 that is dreaming, And the lamp-light 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!

(Message #1708, 10/03/1999, mgonzalez01)

Message 1715
Poe...{THE} poet
crowstouch
10/04/1999 12:59 pm EDT

I've been busy with my writing and not been here a while. Hope all have been well. I see that Mary brought to light some aspects to Edgar Allan Poe's writing. Being that my screen names have come around the "crow" mystical ways, I won't get into the reality of what's happened since using "crowstouch" and "thecrowcnu" (aol). When you understand the truth of your inner-self and begin to feel what there is in the sanctuary that allows "real" things to happen through prayer and meditation...then you understand some aspects of whom you to be and why your space, and everything surrounding it, is relative. Poetry is a gifted craft, and I relish how Edgar Allan Poe made it so wonderful for our time to experience such words.

Using the words that encompass your "self," an inward thought process bringing out those words of power, can and does make things happen to whom reads them. Poe did this so well. He envisioned from deep inside his psyche how those words he wrote would stay for centuries, touching everyone, teaching all who would want to learn from poetry, how a poem comes to be what it is as an art, giving inspiration where none may have thought possible.

This poem, "A Dream" was written between 1827-1845. It is not a great poem, as The Raven is, but shows just how words are created with powerful thought and carried to the reader for an everlasting impression he wanted from his words, as The Raven does.

We poets, in this "now" time of our lives, should be so lucky to write as he did and have it taken beyond the millenium of our existence.

smiles

crowstouch

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