Edgar Allan Poe

Hey guys,

as I have had English classes from kindergarden up to the last year of highschool, I have always tried to read everything related to English language and culture. This resulted in graduating in English as well. This meant that I had to choose a topic which had to be presented in the oral exam of my graduation. First, I honestly didn't know what I wanted to work and do my research on. I was skimming through many English books and suddenly stumbled over a poem from Edgar Allan Poe. From the first moment on I was impressed by his style of writing and painting pictures in my head. I started to do some research on his life to get an idea where his gloomy, melancholy expressions come from and read many of his poems and short stories. Soon I was full of enthusiasm about everything he wrote.  

In first place, I want to tell you a little bit about his life. Following I will post the poem I love most, which is "The Raven".

Edgar Allan Poe, born on January 19 1809, was an American author, poet and literary critic. He is considered the inventor of what we know as short detective fiction, what can be particularly noticed in his macabre and mystery short stories. Poe is also known as the first one who tries to make a living solely by writing - what resulted in a financially rather difficult life and career. He was an orphan at the age of two and had a quite difficult relationship to whom was then his father. They were very often quarrelling due to the lack of money. In 1827 he enlisted in the Army, in the same year he published his first collection of poems named Tamerlane and Other Poems. Even though these poems didn't turn out to be very successful, he declared his firm wish of being a poet and author. This time is seen as his initial period of writing. 

Not only was he successful in writing poems and short stories, he also tried to make his living as literary critic. He soon got well-known for his unique style of criticism in literary journals and periodicals. At the age of 26 he married his 13-year-old cousin. One year later he published his best-known poem "The Raven", what still nowadays is the first work that is mentioned when it comes to his legacy. 

Melancholy, dreariness and morbidity played an important role throughout his whole process of writing, but also lived on when is death is concerned: the reasons for his death at the age of 40 is still unclear. However, they have always been linked to alcoholism, brain congestion, cholera and many more. 

As already mentioned, his writing includes many short stories and poems, some include the following (in alphabetic order)

• The Cask of Amontillado
• The Fall of the House of Usher
• The Murders in the Rue Morgue
• The Pit and the Pendulum
• The Purloined Letter
• The Tell-Tale Heart
  
• A Dream within a Dream
• The Haunted Palace
• To Helen
  

As already mentioned above, the poem I love(d) most was/is The Raven. The poem is about a talking raven who is visiting a despared lover who is lamenting the loss of his loved one, Lenore. As style is concerned, the poem makes use of internal rhyme (see for example in the first paragraph - suddenly there came a tapping, as of some one gently rapping) and alliterations throughout the paragraphs (such as lost Lenore; the rare and radiant; entreating entrance).  Not only did it play an important role in Poe's life (not financially though), it is also one of the most famous poems ever written.

I want to finish off my post for today with the poem itself and hope you enjoy reading through it as much as I do.

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 mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness 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 blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above 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 sad soul 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 the 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 hath lent thee - by these angels he has 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 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's 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!