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Edgar Allan Poe was known for strange and mysterious tales, in poetry and prose. Perhaps fittingly, the circumstances surrounding his premature death at the age of 40 were also strange and mysterious. (Read about the circumstances here and here.) Thus, with the help of poet Phil S. Rogers, the idea was conceived of a poem, factual and/or fictional, on the death of Poe in the meter of his renowned “Raven.”
The poet and editor, got as far as the below two stanzas, which are free for public use with the hope that someone will bring this concept to fruition, or add a stanza, and post it in the comments below.
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On a sodden night so eerie, moonless, therefore dark and dreary,
Mists athwart the ground roll shrouding, creeping, creeping ever low.
Keeping always barely hidden, barely seen as if forbidden,
Something mangled in the gutter, perhaps beset on by a foe,
Noted dramatist and poet, christened Edgar Allan Poe,
Not a tag yet on his toe.
Endless laughter deep one night, a public house in golden light,
Whisky flowed In Gunner’s Hall, public tavern, polling place,
Where the people came out for election day in Baltimore.
Was the beastly whiskey drinking sinking him beyond God’s grace
To a point beyond the health and joy that fills the human race?
No hint came from his pale face.
.
.
Edgar Allan Poe, the poet, died but was too drunk to know it.
Sobered up and started throwing up in front of heaven’s door.
“I’m not done!” he shouted plainly. “Send me back!” he pleaded vainly.
“This is nuts!” he said insanely, gamely rapping on the door.
“Just a poet,” said St. Pete, “inanely tapping on our door.
“Only that and nothing more.”
Edgar’s screams were undiminished, “There’s a poem I’ve not finished!”
“Let me . . . get me back to somewhere close to where I was before.”
“Let me go! I’m tired of fighting! There’s a book I should be writing!
“I’m not finding this exciting, knocking on your stupid door.”
Michael queried, “Who’s inciting rioting outside our door?”
Pete said, “Poe,” and nothing more.
Soon enough, Poe’s worries ended. Back to earth his soul descended.
Where he found himself awaking, aching on his chamber floor.
With his neighbor’s rooster crowing, and his pounding headache growing
He arose, no longer knowing where he’d been the night before.
“What went wrong?” St. Peter asked. “It was,” the harried angel swore,
“A scribal error, nothing more.”
Lovely and funny. Congrats!
Great! I could visualize this happening, laughed all the way through. Phil Rogers
Your contribution to the fate of Poe is wonderful and apropos!
Nice rhyme yourself, Roy! Thanks.
Great start to the challenge, James! Thank you for the inspiration. This is a great challenge!
I’m laughing out loud!
Awesome work, looks quite natural conversation.. I wish to read more his works..
James – A wonderfully irreverent description of shenanigans outside the pearly gates, with some very felicitous rhymes. I particularly like the laconic Saint Pete saying it’s just Poe the poet and nothing more, “insanely, gamely rapping on the door.” In fact this little poem has made my afternoon.
Edgar’s death is most perplexing, steeped in mystery, dark and vexing;
Raven’s wings outstretched and flexing, flexing at the chamber door.
Did a barroom binge of liquor lick his skin, let fever flicker,
Singe his brow as he grew sicker, sicker than he’d been before?
Tell-tale heart hallucinations, incoherent declarations
Till his breath was never more.
Mister Poe was dazed and hazy, tongue all slack and eyes all glazy;
Gaunt and haunted, gone half crazy calling for his lost Lenore.
Lacking vim and lacking vigor, pendulum’s swing from pits of rigor;
Edgar should’ve pulled the trigger – killed the ominous bird of yore.
Experts cite the blight of rabies – there are many mights and maybes
On this quest of evermore.
Absolutely love the first line, the reference to shooting the raven, and the
references to Poe’s other works. Thank you.
Hilarious and brilliant! I love the way this group can have great fun while being serious about poetry!
Wish I could think of such a wonderful melange of words, all knowing at the door, but in knowing as before…
He feels there true secrets and seems interesting to help our mind to evoke the pain.
Hidden in Plain Plight
Speaking to his secret buried, strange are
many versions varied,
explicating the very curious
happenstance of Poe’s demise,
none concluding self-sedation
by ferment of his libation
for pneumonic aspiration
that, foretold by fever’s rise,
led to retching and reclothing
then to madness briefly guise —
donned by death that fear denies.
Revised Version:
Edgar’s death is most perplexing, steeped in mystery, dark and vexing;
Raven’s wings outstretched and flexing, flexing at the chamber door.
Did a barroom binge of liquor lick his skin, let fever flicker,
Singe his brow as he grew sicker, sicker than he’d been before,
Tell-Tale-Heart hallucinations, incoherent declarations
Till his breath was never more?
Mister Poe was dazed and hazy, tongue all slack and eyes all glazy;
Gaunt and haunted, gone half crazy calling for his lost Lenore.
Lacking vim and lacking vigor, pendulum’s swing from pits of rigor;
Edgar should’ve pulled the trigger – killed the ominous bird of yore.
Experts cite the blight of rabies – there are many mights and maybes
In this tale of evermore.
Edgar’s life of non-compliance hexed the finds of settled science
Quashing trust and blind reliance on all analytic lore.
Grim ends leave folk shocked and shivery, shrieking tales with bleak delivery,
Stoked to make a raven quivery, quivery to the very core.
Whether crazed or whisky-sodden, Poe will never be forgotten –
He will sing forevermore!
Susan, I am always in awe of your felicity with words, in this case the vexing, flexing and hexing. I agree with Phil Rogers that referencing other works of Poe in your verses is pure inspiration enlivening the meaning.
Thank you so very much, Roy. I’ve taken a couple of poetic liberties with the form… and intend to go back to the drawing board. Sometimes, I’m too passionate for my own good. lol.
Another possibility.
Griswold Called
Libel was the notice printed, facts ignored and newly minted,
scandalizing with fury curious
life and death of Mr. Poe —
“Raving madness diabolic,
constant mumbling melancholic,
stumbling stupors alcoholic,”
Griswold, as the author muttered,
taking charge of works by Poe
wielding power yielding woe.
Thus begetting my suspicion
Griswold felled his competition
crafting crime of hatred spurious
using cooping to excuse
dressing Poe in odd attire
as if forced to thus conspire
leading to a fate more dire —
poison burning as the fuse
Griswold lit in dark igniting
legal edict he’d abuse
filching fame that Poe would lose.
On Edgar Allan Poe immortal day
On a bleak and weary night Edgar and Annabel
Died in ways that captive our imagination
On a tender cloudless night with no moon above
And strange cuckoos heard no more
As night descending on Annabel who Poe remembered
On a stillness and bells that rung on at the very time
Poe and Annabel embraced forever on
A unforgettable night.
So passionate the embrace of love, touches Words and sacrifice of understanding an idea that, he will be a deadline for readers and missing out of all.
Yet another possibility.
Self Defense?
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“Death” perhaps is Poe’s own story
written as exculpatory
freeing him from a habit curious
demons caused him to invoke —
telling tales so often eerie
leading even him to theory
evil of which he was leery
formed the words he penned and spoke
making horror seem companion
though but devil’s means to cloak
curse from which he never woke.
Gracefully laid out the words.
I have found this to be one of the most difficult exercises on SCP.
What amazing poems, only wish I could reach such a standard.
And you have sparked an interest in Edgar Allan Poe .
Thank you SCP
Take a drink to Edgar
Who, like many artists of his time,
Built a world around himself,
A world of prose and rhyme
Take a drink to Edgar
Who wrote of Dickens’ bird,
And made his stories so dark and scary,
They could turn your blood to curd.
Deep into the darkness peering,
I wonder if he was afearing,
What we know for him awaits,
Or if he took it just as fate.
Take a drink to Edgar,
But maybe only one
For if we have too many,
Our lives just may be done.
I don’t know what he believed,
I can’t say he lived for lies,
But I can say, that either way
I disagree or sympathize.
Disagree of he thought life not worth living.
If he thought he could satisfy all his needs
And if he thought that all life is giving
Is drink, to be had in copious feeds.
Yet otherwise, I’d sympathize
If it were any other
Maybe t’was an accident,
Or a visit to his mother.
I know some of this doesn’t make sense…. I tried anyhow haha.
Poetry Challenge: A ‘Raven’-like Poem on the Death of Edgar Allan Poe
Janett Wawrzyniak, Florida
July 12, 2021
New formed rain drops catch incoming cosmic frequencies,
Raindrops fall impressed with cosmic memories,
With light, heard is rapidly increasing frequency again.
Electromagnetic frequencies fall in raindrops setting course,
Surrounding air is permeated with spreading frequency,
Incoming wavelengths each with a strong purpose of their source.
Like a drum with percussion, a fife is heard and felt,
Highest frequencies violet with gamma reaching higher yet,
Are possibly — then felt about one’s head as tapping.
Frequencies increase higher, rapid then closer not offset
Their crests and troughs shorten to vibrate are on track.
Frequency identity is realized — its higher percussion is felt.
Vibration is experienced differently by each individual.
Lowering thoughts to baser density is avoided, then self dealt.
Quality increases with strong higher frequency and its surroundings.
Day or night tapping increases — and overall is felt,
For eons the living searched for light, through the hands of time
In given grace for evermore — then uniting with Light Divine.
My final, tidied up version:
Purple Curtains
~ Musings on Edgar Allen Poe’s Mysterious Death
Edgar’s death was most perplexing, steeped in mystery, dark and vexing –
Some saw wings outstretched and flexing, flexing at his chamber door.
Did a barroom binge of liquor lick his skin, let fever flicker,
Singe his brow as he grew sicker, sicker than he’d been before?
Tell-tale-heart hallucinations may have gripped him as before
Till his breath was nevermore.
Some said Poe was dazed and hazy, tongue all slack and eyes all glazy;
Gaunt and haunted, gone half crazy, calling for his lost Lenore.
Lacking vim and missing vigor, pendulum’s swing from pits of rigor;
Edgar should’ve pulled the trigger – shot the ominous bird of yore.
Some, they cite the blight of rabies; others blame the bird of yore
And its squawk of “Nevermore!”
Edgar’s life of non-compliance hexed the finds of settled science
Quashing trust and blind reliance on all analytic lore.
Grim ends left folk shocked and shivery, shrieking tales with bleak delivery
Stoked to make a raven quivery, quivery to its quothing core.
Whisky-sodden or cur-bitten; mad or pickled to the core –
Poe will sing forevermore!
Aversion and appetite are his demands to who the poet plays
Smote of a single seminal hand bent old page and black ink confessor.
The twinge in a man and his tales are thick in fog.
Vying one another the poet bent down torn words.
Pique that lay across the poet’s path meandering the time.
Attention of the day gave new words.
It was never Poe’s “Raven.” His claim to it was merely a scam. I have found compelling evidence that it was written by Mathew Franklin Whittier, younger brother of the Quaker poet John Greenleaf Whittier, from real life circumstances in December of 1841.
Mr. Sakellarios is claiming authorship of “The Raven” because he IS the reincarnated Matthew Franklin Whittier.
Here is a video of Mr. Sakellarios kneeling at Whittier’s grave.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FIieGtsmO7Q
I don’t “claim” anything; I report research results. My theories are falsifiable, and I always do my best to disprove them before I announce them. One cannot say the same for the Poe apologists, who go into denial even when presented with good evidence. Poe’s supposed authorship of “The Raven” is a mythical house of cards which does not stand up to close scrutiny.
P.S. In that video, I’m not “kneeling at the grave” in the sense you may be suggesting. I had to get on the ground one way or the other to keep the stone in the shot for the videographer, and it was easier (and cleaner) for me to kneel than to sit on the ground. It was simply a practical matter for the camera.