Poetry of the Week: Edgar Allen Poe

Swinging back to spooky this week with some classic Poe. "The Tell-Tale Heart" was my favorite short story in elementary school, and of course "The Raven" is one of the better known poems in the shivers-to-spines genre. I'll include it here for completeness, as well as a few lesser known hauntings.

The Haunted Palace

In the greenest of our valleys 

   By good angels tenanted, 

Once a fair and stately palace- 

   Radiant palace- reared its head. 

In the monarch Thought's dominion- 

   It stood there! 

Never seraph spread a pinion 

   Over fabric half so fair! 

Banners yellow, glorious, golden, 

   On its roof did float and flow, 

(This- all this- was in the olden 

   Time long ago,) 

And every gentle air that dallied, 

   In that sweet day, 

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid, 

   A winged odor went away. 

Wanderers in that happy valley, 

   Through two luminous windows, saw 

Spirits moving musically, 

   To a lute's well-tuned law, 

Round about a throne where, sitting 

   (Porphyrogene!) 

In state his glory well-befitting, 

   The ruler of the realm was seen. 

And all with pearl and ruby glowing 

   Was the fair palace door, 

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, 

   And sparkling evermore, 

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty 

   Was but to sing, 

In voices of surpassing beauty, 

   The wit and wisdom of their king. 

But evil things, in robes of sorrow, 

   Assailed the monarch's high estate. 

(Ah, let us mourn!- for never morrow 

   Shall dawn upon him desolate!) 

And round about his home the glory 

   That blushed and bloomed, 

Is but a dim-remembered story 

   Of the old time entombed. 

And travellers, now, within that valley, 

   Through the red-litten windows see 

Vast forms, that move fantastically 

   To a discordant melody, 

While, like a ghastly rapid river, 

   Through the pale door 

A hideous throng rush out forever 

   And laugh- but smile no more. 

Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone --

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy:

Be silent in that solitude

    Which is not loneliness -- for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

    In life before thee are again

In death around thee -- and their will

Shall then overshadow thee: be still.

For the night -- tho' clear -- shall frown --

And the stars shall look not down,

From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given --

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever :

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish --

Now are visions ne'er to vanish --

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more -- like dew-drop from the grass:

The breeze -- the breath of God -- is still --

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy -- shadowy -- yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token --

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries! --

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 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 blessed 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 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 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 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! 

Poetry of (Last) Week: Wild Geese

I owe you a spooky and/or Gothic poem from last week, but work and life swamped me, so have an uplifting poem that crossed my path a few days ago, instead. We'll get back to ghosts and gloom on Wednesday.

Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Tea Update: Hiatus Ending

My tea updates fell off the map, and I still owe you a Wonder blend for my Crossover LARP collection. The reason for that is that I ran out of both the bases for my Joy and Sorrow teas, and was putting off doing a full tea order until I did a full audit of my tea cabinet, which was a mess.

But a week ago I went through it, pulled out every last tin, jar, and bag, cataloged what was empty or mislabeled, and organized everything by type for future ease of reference. I now know that I am in fact out of lapsang, as I'd assumed, but I have significant quantities of mango and Earl Grey, and more plain white and yerba mate than I'd expected. I'll be putting together a tea order in the next few days, and then we should return to our regularly scheduled mucking about with mixes.

In the mean time, gaze upon my works, ye mighty, and despair (of my shaky photography skills)!

The top shelf is for blends of various complication, particularly if I can't name all the ingredients. Second shelf is blacks, including flavored blacks. Third shelf is mostly greens, but with whites, oolongs, and mates all huddled together on the left. Fourth shelf is herbals, and the last shelf is mix in ingredients and empty tins.  

Our previous organization system had more to do with container than tea type, which didn't work for me at all. This I expect to be far more maintainable, and way easier to experiment with when I don't have to dig through dozens of mystery canisters to find a good tisane for my caffeine free guests, or the particular type of green I think would taste good with whatever I'm trying that day.

Poetry of the Week: Blake, Hope, and Cynicism

William Blake is one of the strangest of the Romantics. He's most known for his Songs of Innocence and Experience, but within that set is more known for "Tyger, Tyger! Burning bright..." than the collection as a whole. (I don't know how often people read The Tyger's companion piece The Lamb in conjunction?) The theme of the collection is, as you'd expect, a series of poems and songs that are soft and loving and speak of faith and angels, paired with a series of songs and poems that portray violence, cruelty, poverty, and the harsher sides of human nature. I recommend reading it, and giving some thought to his pairings and the changes between the two, though I don't personally know how I feel about them.

If you keep digging into his poetry, though, it helps to spend time learning about the vast and elaborate mythology he set up, describing a series of god-like beings based around aspects of Man and the struggles and wars between them. That's a woefully inadequate description, and again I don't know how I feel about his choices here, but they're fascinating. And illustrated with his own etchings and engravings. Perhaps one day I'll cover them here.

But this is all wildly off topic, and Blake isn't a Gothic poet anyway, so why are we here? We're here because when I think of dark poetry contrasting despair of human nature with the sweetness of love, faith, or innocence, I do still tend to think of Blake.  So have some darkness, and unlike his organization, we'll end on some light.


The Clod and The Pebble
"Love seeketh not itself to please, 
Nor for itself hath any care, 
But for another gives its ease, 
And builds a Heaven in Hell's despair." 

So sung a little Clod of Clay 
Trodden with the cattle's feet, 
But a Pebble of the brook 
Warbled out these metres meet: 

"Love seeketh only self to please, 
To bind another to its delight, 
Joys in another's loss of ease, 
And builds a Hell in Heaven's despite." 


The Human Abstract
Pity would be no more,
If we did not make somebody Poor:
And Mercy no more could be,
If all were as happy as we;

And mutual fear brings peace;
Till the selfish loves increase.
Then Cruelty knits a snare,
And spreads his baits with care.

He sits down with holy fears,
And waters the ground with tears:
Then Humility takes its root
Underneath his foot.

Soon spreads the dismal shade
Of Mystery over his head;
And the Catterpillar and Fly,
Feed on the Mystery.

And it bears the fruit of Deceit,
Ruddy and sweet to eat;
And the Raven his nest has made
In its thickest shade.

The Gods of the earth and sea
Sought thro' Nature to find this Tree
But their search was all in vain:
There grows one in the Human Brain


On Another's Sorrow
Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear,        
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow fill’d?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?        
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He who smiles on all
Hear the wren with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care,        
Hear the woes that infants bear,

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast;
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear;        

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
O, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give His joy to all;        
He becomes an infant small;
He becomes a man of woe;
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by;        
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

O! He gives to us His joy
That our grief He may destroy;
Till our grief is fled and gone        
He doth sit by us and moan.



The Night
The sun descending in the west,  
  The evening star does shine;  
The birds are silent in their nest.  
  And I must seek for mine.  
    The moon, like a flower        
    In heaven's high bower,  
    With silent delight  
    Sits and smiles on the night.  

Farewell, green fields and happy grove,  
  Where flocks have took delight:  
Where lambs have nibbled, silent move  
  The feet of angels bright;  
    Unseen they pour blessing  
    And joy without ceasing  
    On each bud and blossom,  
    And each sleeping bosom.  

They look in every thoughtless nest  
  Where birds are cover'd warm;  
They visit caves of every beast,  
  To keep them all from harm:  
    If they see any weeping  
    That should have been sleeping,  
    They pour sleep on their head,  
    And sit down by their bed.  

When wolves and tigers howl for prey,  
  They pitying stand and weep,  
Seeking to drive their thirst away  
  And keep them from the sheep.  
    But, if they rush dreadful,
    The angels, most heedful,  
    Receive each mild spirit,  
    New worlds to inherit.  

And there the lion's ruddy eyes  
  Shall flow with tears of gold:  
And pitying the tender cries,  
  And walking round the fold:  
    Saying, 'Wrath, by His meekness,  
    And, by His health, sickness,  
    Are driven away  
    From our immortal day.  

'And now beside thee, bleating lamb,  
  I can lie down and sleep,  
Or think on Him who bore thy name,  
  Graze after thee, and weep.  
    For, wash'd in life's river,  
    My bright mane for ever  
    Shall shine like the gold  
    As I guard o'er the fold.'