“One the greatest and unhappiest of American poets, a master of the horror tale, and the patron saint of the detective story.” Edgar Allan Poe had first gained critical acclaim in France and England but had only a slight reputation in America until French-influenced writers and representatives of the Lovecraft school created interest in his work.
I personally find Edgar Allan Poe intriguing for he gone through many setbacks like the death of both of his parents, his brother and his sister later had sort of a mental breakdown which she became insane, and finally getting disowned by his foster parent. Yet, he did not give up his passion of writing poems and persisted on writing. What is interesting about his works is that his life depictions also blend in with characters from his stories, suggesting Poe and his characters share identities. He was just seventeen years old when he was accepted into Virginia University. First year he managed to gamble all his scholarship money. It was also later reported that Edgar owed around $2500 to local gamblers. Gambling addiction led to alcoholism, which is still debated by many his followers. However, it was reported by school systems that Edgar showed up in class drunk even during the examinations. The interesting fact is that Edgar Allan Poe finished with highest grades in his class and became best student of his generation!
Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, to parents who were itinerant actors. His father David Poe Jr. died in around 1810. His mother died one year later, leaving three children behind. Edgar was taken into the home of a Richmond merchant John Allan. The remaining children were taken cared for by others. At the age of five Poe could recite passages of English poetry.
One of his teachers in Richmond commented: "While the other boys wrote mere mechanical verses, Poe wrote genuine poetry; the boy was a born poet."
Poe has a beautiful way of describing things, with the most vivid and imaginative vocabulary. It is true that he died long ago, but his poems still having meaning even today. You can tell by some of his works that a lot of thought had been put into creating these masterpieces. Much of the melody of "The Raven" arises from alliteration, which makes the poem flow smoothly and even adds on to a sleepy sensation, accompanied by wonderful uses of adjectives; makes one feel very relaxed. Yet it is germane and draws the reader further.
Edgar Allan Poe was the first person to earn a living solely based on writing alone which resulted in his financially difficult life and carrier but nevertheless –
Doing what he loved.
Here are three of his works:
The Raven (parts of it)
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 tried 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."
Followed fast and followed faster — so, when Hope he would adjure,Stern Despair returned, instead of the sweet Hope he dared adjure —
That sad answer, "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."
"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 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 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!
IMITATION.
A dark unfathom'd tide Of interminable pride — A mystery, and a dream, Should my early life seem; I say that dream was fraught With a wild, and waking thought Of beings that have been, Which my spirit hath not seen, Had I let them pass me by, With a dreaming eye! Let none of earth inherit That vision on my spirit; Those thoughts I would controul, As a spell upon his soul: For that bright hope at last And that light time have past, And my worldly rest hath gone With a sigh as it pass'd on, I care not tho' it perish
With a thought I then did cherish,
Romance.
Romance, who loves to nod and sing, With drowsy head and folded wing, Among the green leaves as they shakeFar down within some shadowy lake, To me a painted paroquet Hath been — a most familiar bird — Taught me my alphabet to say — To lisp my very earliest word While in the wild wood I did lieA child — with a most knowing eye. Of late, eternal Condor years So shake the very Heavens on high With tumult, as they thunder by, I have no time for idle cares Through gazing on the unquiet sky. And when an hour with calmer wings Its down upon my spirit flings — That little time with lyre and rhyme To while away — forbidden things! My heart would feel to be a crime Unless it trembled with the strings!
These are my sources:
-http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/ravena.htm
-http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_Allan_Poe
-http://www.kirjasto.sci.fi/eapoe.htm
-http://www.famous-poems.biz/Famous-Poets/Famous-Poet-Edgar-Allan-Poe-best-poems-and-biography-online.htm
-http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/imitata.htm
-http://www.eapoe.org/works/poems/romancef.htm
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