Lit & The Arts Edgar Allan Poe

Discussion in 'Literature & The Arts' started by mscbkc070904, Mar 7, 2005.

  1. mscbkc070904

    mscbkc070904 Premium Member

    Who thinks his stories were beyond his time? I mean the distorted thoughts and lib that was portrayed in his stories and poems.

    He is my all time favorite author. What do you guys think? The first story I ever heard was the Tell Tale Heart that had a action play when i was 10 during a Halloween party, where someone was making the thumping under the floorboards, it was so cool and eerie.
     
  2. poonchang

    poonchang New Member

    Poe's work is amazing. I've read most of his stuff in one of those 'complete works' volumes. They're cheap, too!. I remember my mother telling me a ghost story when I was a kid. It was a version of the Tell Tale Heart. Usually I enjoyed spooky stories, but that one made me cry:( lol I also like the Raven and the Pit and the Pendulum. There are a lot of great stories, but that's all I can remember right now.
     
  3. Icewolf

    Icewolf Premium Member

    In case you ever wanted to know what my inspiration is on my poetry, It would have to be this most talented poet.

    Never shall there walk again
    One whose talent talked of bane
    He whom horror of the past
    Was spoken through his wisdom vast

    Just something short to introduce him, Here's one of my favourites (can't remember if i've posted this before)

    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 someone 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 forevermore.


    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 the 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, something 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 the 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 that 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 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."

    Thus 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, O 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 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'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!
     
  4. Icewolf

    Icewolf Premium Member

  5. mscbkc070904

    mscbkc070904 Premium Member

    Ice I merged the threads into one.

    M
     
  6. Bleys

    Bleys Phoenix Takes Flight Staff Member

    :ch: Bad Poe!

    His stuff was so real and so plausible to me. It's his work that will keep me from ever being buried - cremation, mummification, anything but being stuck in the ground.

    B.:cryb:
     
  7. _Angel_1991

    _Angel_1991 Premium Member

    Poe was a great man with words. However, like many poets, he lost himself in dreams and died an unhappy life. If you have read his story, "The Black Cat", You may find it interesting that Poe used his own characteristics in that story.
     
  8. Ape

    Ape Premium Member

    Did anyone relize that in the book a series of unfortunate events the friend of the Baudelires parents , Mr.Poe has two kids Edgar and Albert. Edgar Albert(Allan) Poe. Amazingly I was reading the book while on ID and when I read Mr.Poes kids names I stopped and read this thread. eerie..............
     
  9. Ape

    Ape Premium Member

    and u know my teacher told me that when he was in college (forget were) his collegues were discussing The Raven and they kept saying how it lacked the features of a good poem/short story but Mr.Young (my teacher) stood up for Eddie! Personally I don't favor the raven but I cant really gudge, most of Poe's work was tragic genius.
     
  10. _Angel_1991

    _Angel_1991 Premium Member

    The Series of Unfortunate Events?!! Wow, that is amazing. I love those books, but I never realized...
    Anyway, Poe was one of the greatest poet of his time.
     
  11. Icewolf

    Icewolf Premium Member

    Poe is still one of the greatest poets!!
    His haunted melancholy always seems to me to be put in his poems. It's funny how when you write a poem, a littlebit of you always seems to be in there.

    - Ice -
     
  12. _Angel_1991

    _Angel_1991 Premium Member

    I think that the reason that Poe was a great poet is that he had touched his own death in the form of alcohalism (is that how it is spelled?).
    Death makes you great....
    Or meaningless
     
  13. Ape

    Ape Premium Member

    hehe never heard it put in words like that, Death make u great or meaningless. Very true. Very true..........