Happy birthday, Edgar Allan Poe

This is the 202nd anniversary of the birth of Edgar Allan Poe, one of America's most posthumously celebrated authors. When he was 40, Poe was found disheveled and ranting in Baltimore and was taken to a hospital, where he died broke and drunk -- or poisoned, or of a brain tumor, or of rabies, depending on which account you prefer.

He left behind lasting short stories -- "The Pit and the Pendulum," "The Fall of the House of Usher," "The Purloined Letter" and "The Tell-Tale Heart" -- as well as a legacy that credits his mysterious and macabre oeuvre as being the beginning of American detective fiction and helping to create science fiction. He was also a poet.

To celebrate his birthday, here is Poe's most famous poem, "The Raven," first published in 1845.

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 mortals 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 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 being
Ever yet was blest 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 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 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 lamplight 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!

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Print and fold your own Edgar Allan Poe

-- Carolyn Kellogg

Photo: Edgar Allan Poe. Credit: Associated Press

Comments

[Hershey Chocolate]

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[Anne Wright]

I have an original Edgar Allen Poe book called, Poe's Poems. The cover has been replaced but is quite old because it is believed this book was in the actual fire of the library. The book is delicate and very well taken care of. Who do I contact to put this book up for sale? Thank you for the interesting story. What a remarkable poet.

[Elizabeth]

I named my daughter after The Raven. I have loved his work for as long as I can remember.

[Jenn]

He wouldn't be 202 today, he'd be dead today. Acknowledge the date of birth and leave it at that.

[Aaron]

Edgar Allen Poe, ahead of his time.

[Jenn]

Seems as if LA Times figured it out to say it's the 202nd anniversary and not that he would be 202 years old, as the previous headline stated.

[The User Lady]

Happy Birthday, my beloved Edgar. Unfortunately I was born two hundred years too late to find you and capture your heart as you've captured mine!

[Chris Roberts]

Here's to Edgar Allan Poe, Clink! Clink! His last days were mysterious, but his legacy, no. Author Carolyn Kellogg's science fiction connection is a reach or better yet, untenable. I can think of no major sci-fi practitioner that has cited Poe as an inspiration. Poet Robert Frost best captures Poe as an inanimate object: "The woods are lovely, dark and deep." EAP is indeed lovely in his talent and dark and deep in subject matter.

What Edgar Allan Poe left behind is the prototype for the mad, drunk poet. I am aware, of course, of his short stories and other such. Poe takes the madness one step further as a walking suicide who rattles the bars of Hell and taunts Satan by throwing rot-gut whiskey in his face. Poe would not let the top shelf liquor be wasted so. Edgar Allan Poe's greatest legacy in his work and personal life is a blank check to poets especially to live and fly about a madman or woman, but make sure you put pen to paper and record it.

[anonymouse]

You should have mentioned he was wearing another man's clothes when he died.

It was election day, he may have been posing as someone else to get paid for voting.

Nothing like that happens today.

[Anne Geyer]

"Author Carolyn Kellogg's science fiction connection is a reach or better yet, untenable. I can think of no major sci-fi practitioner that has cited Poe as an inspiration."

Jeff VanderMeer,
H.P. Lovecraft,
Clive Barker,
Harlan Ellison,
Jules Verne,
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Stephen Dedman,
Stephen King,
Wolfgang Hohlbein,
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William S. Burroughs,
Ursula LeGuin,
James Tiptree...