The Slender Poe Anthology Read online

  Why need I paint, Charmion, the now disenchained frenzy of mankind? That tenuity in the comet which had previously inspired us with hope, was now the source of the bitterness of despair. In its impalpable gaseous character we clearly perceived the consummation of Fate. Meantime a day again passed—bearing away with it the last shadow of Hope. We gasped in the rapid modification of the air. The red blood bounded tumultuously through its strict channels. A furious delirium possessed all men; and, with arms rigidly outstretched towards the threatening heavens, they trembled and shrieked aloud. But the nucleus of the destroyer was now upon us;—even here in Aidenn, I shudder while I speak. Let me be brief—brief as the ruin that overwhelmed. For a moment there was a wild lurid light alone, visiting and penetrating all things. Then—let us bow down Charmion, before the excessive majesty of the great God!—then, there came a shouting and pervading sound, as if from the mouth itself of HIM; while the whole incumbent mass of ether in which we existed, burst at once into a species of intense flame, for whose surpassing brilliancy and all-fervid heat even the angels in the high Heaven of pure knowledge have no name. Thus ended all.

  The first version of this poem appeared in the collection, Poems (1831); it would be fourteen years before another volume of Poe’s poetry would be published. This poem would be improved by then, for as F. O. Matthiessen observed, Poe revised his work “meticulously throughout his life, usually to its distinct improvement.”

  It may help to know that “levin” means “lightning.”

  Israfel is a Jimi Hendrix in the sky playing his heartstrings, an Orpheus in the heavens with a spellbinding song; but Poe is ready to trade places with Israfel—and surpass the angel’s celestial artistry!

  Thomas Wentworth Higginson, having heard Poe at a Boston reading in 1845, wrote: “his voice seemed attenuated to the finest thread; the audience became hushed, and, as it were, breathless; there seemed no life in the hall but his; and every syllable was accentuated with such delicacy, and sustained with such sweetness as I never heard by other lips…”

  ISRAFEL

  “And the angel Israfel, whose heart-strings are a lut,

  and who has the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures.”

  —Koran

  In Heaven a spirit doth dwell

  “Whose heart-strings are a lute;”

  None sing so wildly well

  As the angel Israfel,

  And the giddy stars (so legends tell)

  Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell

  Of his voice, all mute.

  Tottering above

  In her highest noon

  The enamoured moon

  Blushes with love,

  While, to listen, the red levin

  (With the rapid Pleiads, even,

  Which were seven,)

  Pauses in Heaven

  And they say (the starry choir

  And all the listening things)

  That Israfeli’s fire

  Is owing to that lyre

  By which he sits and sings—

  The trembling living wire

  Of those unusual strings.

  But the skies that angel trod,

  Where deep thoughts are a duty—

  Where Love’s a grown up God—

  Where the Houri glances are

  Imbued with all the beauty

  Which we worship in a star.

  Therefore, thou art not wrong,

  Israfeli, who despisest

  An unimpassion’d song:

  To thee the laurels belong

  Best bard, because the wisest!

  Merrily live, and long!

  The ecstasies above

  With thy burning measures suit—

  Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,

  With the fervor of thy lute—

  Well may the stars be mute!

  Yes, Heaven is thine; but this

  Is a world of sweets and sours;

  Our flowers are merely—flowers,

  And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

  Is the sunshine of ours.

  If I could dwell

  Where Israfel

  Hath dwelt, and he where I,

  He might not sing so wildly well

  A mortal melody,

  While a bolder note than this might swell

  From my lyre within the sky.

  In the aftermath of Virginia’s death, Poe needed serious attention during the illness and mourning that followed her loss; Marie Louis Shew gave this to him, and though she, too, would in time “desert” him, before she did, he composed this poem for her. The foreign dissyllables are her first two names.

  This poem alludes to other of his poems and tales as if Poe senses his own end is nearing, and he begins a kind of lyric coda to his work. The line “Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,” is likely another endeavor at giving his hypnagogic “fancies” expression in words.

  The romantic German poet known as Novalis, dead from consumption at only 28, composed a series of brilliant aphorisms entitled, Pollen; this is one that Poe might have written: “Every beloved object is the focus of a paradise.”

  TO —————

  Not long ago, the writer of these lines,

  In the mad pride of intellectuality,

  Maintained “the power of words”—denied that ever

  A thought arose within the human brain

  Beyond the utterance of the human tongue:

  And now, as if in mockery of that boast,

  Two words—two foreign soft dissyllables—

  Italian tones, made only to be murmured

  By angels dreaming in the moonlit “dew

  That hangs like chains of pearl on Hermon hill,”—

  Have stirred from out the abysses of his heart,

  Unthought-like thoughts that are the souls of thought,

  Richer, far wilder, far diviner visions

  Than even the seraph harper, Israfel,

  (Who has “the sweetest voice of all God’s creatures”)

  Could hope to utter. And I! my spells are broken.

  The pen falls powerless from my shivering hand.

  With thy dear name as text, though bidden by thee,

  I can not write—I can not speak or think—

  Alas, I can not feel; for ’tis not feeling,

  This standing motionless upon the golden

  Threshold of the wide-open gate of dreams,

  Gazing, entranced, adown the gorgeous vista,

  And thrilling as I see, upon the right,

  Upon the left, and all the way along,

  Amid empurpled vapors, far away

  To where the prospect terminates— thee only!

  The poet-critic is at times of two minds that are working at cross-purposes. The critic assessing, analyzing, judging. Often the critic has an agenda independent of the poem at hand. This agenda may be thought of as a set of spectacles that, when put on, perceive what the lenses are made to see.

  When the poet is engaged in the making of a poem, the poet is after fulfillment of some promise that flickers in the heart, which the head needs to enhance and shape, so the soul will be satisfied. Sometimes the poet is painter and words are the paint. Sometimes the poet is composer and words are the notes fashioned into a melodious whole. The poet scores the poem on a blank page. The poet figures forth the poem on the canvas of silence, putting to use an optimal verbal palette.

  The critic often needs to demonstrate superiority to the poem by pointing out the poem’s insufficiencies. The critic needs to prove equal to the poet since anyone knowledgeable about the two verbal operations would surely prefer to write a poem than to do what critics do.

  Let’s remember what Jack
Yeats once said to his son, William: “If it can be explained, it’s not poetry.”

  Just think of how much more of Poe’s poetry we might have had he not given so much poorly remunerated time to the review of volumes of poetry now chiefly remembered because of his exertions as a critic.

  LINES FROM THE CRITICAL PROSE

  I need scarcely observe that a poem deserves its title only inasmuch as it excites, by elevating the soul.

  *

  The value of the poem is in the ratio of this elevating excitement.

  *

  A poem, in my opinion, is opposed to a work of science by having for its immediate object, pleasure, not truth; to romance, by having for its object an indefinite instead of a definite pleasure, being a poem only so far as this object is attained: romance presenting perceptible images with definite, poetry indefinite sensations, to which end music is an essential, since the comprehension of sweet sound is our most indefinite conception.

  *

  Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.

  *

  Dividing the world of mind into its three most immediately obvious distinctions, we have the Pure Intellect, Taste, and the Moral Sense. I place Taste in the middle, because it is just this position which, in the mind, it occupies.

  *

  Just as the Intellect concerns itself with Truth, so Taste informs us of the Beautiful while the Moral Sense is regardful of Duty.

  *

  When, indeed, men speak of Beauty, they mean, precisely, not a quality, as is supposed, but an effect—they refer, in short, just to that intense and pure elevation of the soul—not of intellect, or of heart. . .

  *

  Now the object Truth, or the satisfaction of the intellect, and object Passion, or the excitement of the heart, are, although attainable, to a certain extent, in poetry, far more readily attainable in prose.

  *

  Beauty of whatever kind, in its supreme development invariably excites the sensitive soul to tears. Melancholy is thus the most legitimate of all the poetical tones.

  *

  I asked myself—“Of all melancholy topics, what, according to the universal understanding of mankind, is the most melancholy?” Death—was the obvious reply.

  *

  “And when,” I said, “is this most melancholy of topics the most poetical?” …the answer, here also, is obvious—“When it most closely allies itself to Beauty: the death, then, of a beautiful woman is, unquestionably, the most poetical topic in the world—and equally is it beyond doubt that the lips best suited for such topic are those of a bereaved lover.”

  It is in Music, perhaps, that the soul most nearly attains the great end for which, inspired by the Poetic Sentiment, it struggles—the creation of a supernal Beauty.

  *

  I would define, in brief, the Poetry of Words as

  The Rhythmical Creation of Beauty.

  Possibly America’s most renowned poem, it began its illustrious career published anonymously, in the New York Evening Mirror in January 1845, 10 days after Poe’s 36th birthday. Like Poe, it has always been an object of controversy; if you like it, then it’s likely you will like Poe.

  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 visiter,” 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 visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door—

  Some late visiter 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 I heard again 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 an instant 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 farther 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 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 faint foot-falls 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!