Monday's Poetry: "The Raven"

by Pa Rock
Poetry Appreciator

I have mentioned my admiration of American horror author, H.P. Lovecraft, in the Ramble on several occasions. Lovecraft was a master of braiding terror and suspense with beautiful prose. But he was not the original American author to focus on the dark and eerie - that honor falls to Edgar Allen Poe. Today's horror scribes, people like Stephen King, Dean Koontz, and Peter Straub, are pushing forward on trails that were originally hewn by Poe and lengthened by Lovecraft.

Edgar Allen Poe had a short and tragic life, yet he was able to publish poems, stories, and even one novel that can still make the skin crawl. Poe's most famous poem, The Raven, was published in 1845 - just four short years before his death at the age of forty. (One of my "treasures" is a small statuette of Poe with a Raven on his shoulder!)

For a fictional and evocative mystery based on the death of Edgar Allen Poe, I highly recommend The Poe Shadow by Matthew Pearl. Pearl brings forth many little known facts about the master of the macabre and weaves them into an excellent read.

For your reading pleasure, here is...

The Raven
by Edgar Allen Poe

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 named 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 named Lenore -
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named 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!

Lovecraft on Twitter

by Pa Rock
Fan of Good Literature

H.P. Lovecraft is my second favorite American writer. Tim Macy of Kansas City is first, Michael Chabon is third, Mark Twain is fourth, and the top five is rounded out by Kurt Vonnegut.

Lovecraft published his stories in pulp magazines in the 1920's and 30's, sometimes for as little as a penny a word. He took the concept of horror fiction that had been practiced so well by Edgar Allen Poe, and took it places that Poe could never have contemplated - creating a world that is unmistakably Lovecraftian. From the dank halls of Miskatonic University where a fragile copy of the evil Necronomicon was housed in the school's library, to the ice fields of Antarctica, to the falling down houses of Providence, Rhode Island, in the early days of the twentieth century, Lovecraft created mysterious worlds that were truly gateways to terror.

The works of H.P. Lovecraft are an acquired taste, and once a mind has experienced his disquieting tales, it will forever know tremors of trepidation at every chance encounter, every coincidence, and every surprise that presents itself onto the quiet tranquility of day-to-day life.

I began using a tracking site on July 23rd of this year to get some sense of who was reading The Ramble and the types of things that drew people to the site. The runaway favorite post has been "Lovecraft Words," a piece that ran on June 14th, 2008, and examined the beautiful vocabulary that Lovecraft used in one of his short stories. That post has had 48 hits in less than two months, almost double the number of visitors to the second most popular piece - "The Lumley Vampire," which ran on May 31st, 2009, and has only recently outdistanced the third placeholder "The Sad Ballad of Randy Leach," a column on a Kansas mystery that was featured in The Ramble on April 16, 2008, and has been viewed 23 times since the tracking service went into effect in July.

I learned yesterday that there is a new twitter site dedicated to H.P. Lovecraft. I am hopeful that it proves to be an effective medium for reaching the fans of this prolific and amazing author. The site is LovecraftNews@Twitter.com. It is just getting up and running.

If you are on Twitter and have an interest in H.P. Lovecraft, check it out and become a follower.

Lovecraft Words

by Pa Rock
Word Sprite

As mentioned previously on this blog, I have recently finished reading the Library of America edition of Lovecraft Tales, a compilation of works of H.P. Lovecraft that were selected for publication in this volume by horror author, Peter Straub. While Lovecraft's stories are exceedingly dark and disturbing, he sprinkles them with words that glisten. Lovecraft employs a vocabulary that is somewhat arcane, especially by modern standards, yet it is elegantly arcane. The following examples come from the first story in the collection, The Statement of Randolph Carter, which is a mere seven pages in length.

...confine or execute me if you must have a victim to propitiate the illusion you call justice...

And why Harley Warren did not return, he or his shade - or some nameless thing I cannot describe...

But I do not fear him now, for I suspect that he has known horrors beyond my ken.

...for a waning crescent moon was high in the vaporous heavens.

...so ancient that I trembled at the manifold signs of immemorial years.

On every hand were the signs of neglect and decrepitude...

Over the valley's rim, a wan, waning crescent moon peered through the noisome vapours that seem to emanate from unheard-of-catacombs, and by its feeble, wavering beams I could distinguish a repellent array of antique slabs, urns, cenotaphs, and mausolean facades...

My first vivid impression of my own presence in this terrible necropolis concerns the act of pausing with Warren before a certain half-obliterated sepulchre...

...we stepped back some distance to survey the charnel scene...

The removal of the slab revealed a black aperture, from which rushed an effluence of miasmal gases so nauseous that we started back in horror.

Our lanterns disclosed the top of a flight of stone steps, dripping with some detestable ichor of the inner earth, and bordered by moist walls encrusted with nitre.

I seemed desperately anxious to accompany my friend into those sepulcral depths, yet he proved inflexibly obdurate.

Then he shook my hand, shouldered the coil of wire, and disappeared within that indescribable ossuary.

...and the grotesque shrines and monoliths seemed to assume a hideous personality - a half-sentience.

Amorphous shadows seemed to lurk in the darker recesses of the week-choked hollow and to flit as in some blasphemous ceremonial procession past the portals of the mouldering tombs in the hillside...

...and after a pause a piteous cry from Warren...

I have said that aeons seemed to elapse...

Shall I say that the voice was deep; hollow; gelatinous; remote; unearthly; inhuman; disembodied?

Heard it well up from the innermost depths of that damnable open sepulchre as I watched amorphous, necrophagous shadows dance beneath an accursed waning moon.

The tales of H.P. Lovecraft are strewn with gems of language, sparkling across every page. It is a sad sign of our increasingly vulgar homogenity that Microsoft Word does not recognize many of them!

My Car Book

by Pa Rock
Bookworm

Reading is one of the true enjoyments of my life. For as long as I can remember I have kept a book by the bed that I read from each night. It usually takes two to three weeks to complete an average size novel. Since moving to Arizona last fall, I have also gotten into the habit of going into work early and reading in the car before entering the din of the office. On days when the heat isn't too awful, I will drive to the local Sonic for lunch, put the top down under the big Sonic awning, and read a few more pages of the car book before dealing with my afternoon clients.

While my bed books change every few weeks, I have been reading the same car book since arriving in Arizona. Today I completed Lovecraft Tales, a compilation of the major works of H.P. Lovecraft, a pulp writer of the horror genre in the 1920s and 1930s. This edition, over eight hundred pages of very small print, was put together and edited by The Library of America.

I now feel that I know as much or more about the ancients than the average social worker. Although I have never read the dreaded Necronomicon, I have been exposed to some of its darker secrets, and I know that at least one copy is still in existence - in the ancient book section of the library at Miskatonic University. Lovecraft shared so many of life's horrific mysteries and secrets, and his writings point the way to answers of questions that have yet to be asked.

The highlight of reading Lovecraft, however, is not the strange places to which he transported his readers, it is the beautiful and arcane language that he employed while telling his tales. Those who collect elegant words and masterful phrases would do well to peruse the pages of any Lovecraft story or novel.