Category: Ramblings of a Chaotic Mind

defining poetry

I’ve been reading different thoughts towards the various styles of poetry here recently and even more recently a certain opinion about the definition of a poet, down to even the choice and repetition of words used. This has sparked a nerve in me that I simply needed to express my frustration about. What better an outlet than here, where like minded writers, poets, photographers, simply artists as a collective, live.

Poetry is defined as a type of literature that conveys a thought, describes a scene or tells a story in a concentrated, lyrical arrangement of words. For starters, can we truly put a label on poetry? Sometimes they rhyme. Sometimes they don’t. Sometimes they are short, sometimes long. Okay yes sure, one can write in a certain structure such as sonnets or haiku’s. But even still, there is no “wrong” way to write poetry.

For myself, I’m a free verse lover. Just like my fictional writing, I’m a panster. I plan NOTHING. I just write and just as when I was a child with coloring, almost always outside of the lines. I once read somewhere, a good writer is one that doesn’t feel the need to edit their words written in the middle of the night. Can’t help but think that’s where the true heart of a writer lives.

I’m personally a huge fan of this tagged title now of “micro” poetry, which brings me to the largest debate. It would seem those of us that write “short and sweet” are being shamed for our lack of true length of what poetry should be.  (I invite you to reread the definition of poetry as I cited up there with emphasis on that lovely word straight out of the dictionary, concentrated.)  I mean please, tell me, is their a guidebook out there somewhere that recites a word count to the true definition of what equates to a poem? Anyone? Anyone? Yeah. thought so. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a huge lover of the classics. My God Edgar Allan is a rockstar and that Keats and Thoreau…more please. But does that mean the “micro” writer like myself is any less phenomenal? I don’t think so. If anything I think it becomes even more a talent, an art, to be able to move someone in such a way in as few words as possible.  Just today a coworker came up to me, after having read my latest poetry book which contains poems of only ten words, and said to me how do you manage to pack such a punch in so few words! Of course I was beaming. Any writer would react the same at such praise. I often think of this piece by Ernest Hemingway when I adapt to this logic:

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or a slightly longer piece:

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Secondly, shame on those that even judge and ridicule another writer in the first place. Perhaps they themselves are feeling slightly insecure within their own writing (news flash we all feel this way about our writing) that they feel the need to lash out at another. Or maybe they are just that old fart sitting in the corner bemoaning how us young folks got it all wrong. (Sorry to all you old farts I do love the ones in the corner rooting us young folks on)

Speaking of young folks. I’ve recently taken to utilizing my Instagram site for more than just a gallery of my photography, as I discovered quite the community of poets and writers alike over there. I have been in awe over and over and over again at the words I’m reading, passionately so by the likes of teens and twenty somethings.  This is where I must admit to eating crow upon talking one night to a fellow writer of my discovery and pegging Instagram as the “young crowd” and seemingly “angsty”. I ate my own words not long after that upon discovering these talented young souls that write both in quick snippets and long passages.

Lastly, I think it is imperative for us to embrace one another within whatever writing community we find ourselves in. We are a unique lot. We strive to be our own voice. Whether that’s in short waves or long cruise ship journeys, it makes no difference. As long as we continue to be true to ourselves, even if that puts us out there by ourselves amongst the Emily’s and Poe’s of the world. Don’t be afraid to be a Hemingway. Do you. Don’t let anyone tell you that you’re simply writing in a “trend” If so, it’s the longest damn trend I’ve seen still going strong.

I’d love to hear your opinions or if you want to share that you’ve experienced this. Thank you for taking the time to read this. Be kind to each other.

 

j

 

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crow

I almost didn’t include this here for its meaning was somehow taken in a negative context when from its inception it was to lend strength to the fact that we all have setbacks in healing. I refuse to always write fluffy (mind you I adore fluffy) because we aren’t always walking around pooping rainbows riding unicorns.

Whether it be from abuse, addiction, heartbreak, depression. Part of the growth comes from the fall. Those peripherals can often be silent little daggers just waiting as we walk along the path we pave for ourselves with every intent to travel cautiously and wisely. We can’t avoid them but we can arm ourselves with the tools and the recognition of knowing when the daggers are there in order to help us stitch the wounds if they find enough strength to hit dead center.

The courage to recognize that we have stumbled can be the biggest crow of all (on a side note I personally find crows majestic but just like everything else in life, society has programmed us to believe they are demonic and depressing so for that reason I turn to them for expression)

We aren’t perfect. And when you feel as if your family, your friends, your children, your spouse, your coworkers all have eyes on you it can perhaps be difficult to admit failure. That’s where shame and guilt struggle taking a back seat and that’s when the recognition of just how imperative it is to have your own personal arsenal of cheerleaders shines like a beacon in the night.

As we approach a new year, a new decade, I thank you for taking the time to read this and i hope this finds you well and offers comfort and a reminder this is a dirty pretty world we live in. We are all walking each other home.

always looking for my ray of light

-J

~holiday~

let us take holiday on the moon 

whilst the sun serenades eyes heavy 

floating to a magician’s tune 

won’t you build me a swing 

slowly sing to me 

that song you like to sing 

for then we shall fly 

collecting constellations 

barefoot in a night sky 

whisper sweetly like you do 

as the stars giggle 

when my cheeks change hue 

let us take holiday on the moon 

with no thoughts 

of ever returning soon 

~the path most traveled~

that trip you find

as you close your eyes,

the one that needs not a map

nor latest trendy technology,

but simply a heart that adores

the one where the path naturally soars

beyond rocky crags and tree-lines

to the river that flows below

that place where a heart

simply knows its glow

hints of laughter filled clouds

floating between chocolate kisses

to bygone gestures

in a gentleman’s chivalry

to cordial wishes

given in exclusively

that trip you find

as you close your eyes

the one where courage

sinks below the whys

for spaces silent know the way

of two lovers traveled

never cognizant or of ability to betray

current

you didn’t make this me 

it was hiding beneath 

wandering, drowning 

in my own self made ocean 

swimming dipping 

some days floating along this unknown current 

that I let take me 

content with the not knowing 

of what should be 

losing faith 

after hope fell between 

fingertips to ashes 

whispering now to trees 

some days as if mocking a memory 

yet this one fine day 

when a rebellious current came 

the herons flew 

in perfect symmetry 

as this something shifted beneath me 

swirling ever slowly 

until I found myself 

turned to you 

a something new 

but no not really 

it seemed you’d just taken a breath 

and found another way 

to call to my heart 

your words

like a chorus of rain 

within the enchanted forest 

I’ve now come to find my way to  

along the riverbed 

where my heart rewinds 

set to play 

as new chapters bear our names 

through your quill I find 

my new current….

Cameras, Coffee and Cold Spots

The following is an offering from my journal of paranormal experiences. I hope you enjoy and as always conversation and opinion is always welcome.

J

The Witching Hour…..June, 26, 2016

 

Most nights I find myself writing in the solitude of the darkness. A time when for me is most magicial. It is as if my mind unwinds, releases every qualm of the day and lets me invade the world in which my imagination takes hold. The words just seem to flow with ease during the hours of midnight leading up to three am. This particular night however did not find me under the covers tapping away on my keyboard. I instead was sleeping, that is until my eight year old son woke me up.

 

Unlike my daughter, my son since the age of four has suffered from growing pains. It was around two thirty in the morning when he comes into my room, limping and crying that his legs hurt. It didn’t alarm me as I have been accustomed to it and so I pulled the sheets back, patting the bed for him to climb in beside me. I began my usual routine of rubbing his knees and legs until his tears begin to subside. Within a couple minutes however he begins complaining of his stomach hurting. I ask him if he thinks he needs to go poop and he nods his head saying maybe. I encourage him then to get out the bed and try to go to the bathroom. As I’m saying this I look out to our hallway where the light from the bathroom spills into, and I see, quite clearly a white mass of a figure “float” past, coming from the bathroom heading towards my living room. I say float because I couldn’t see a connection with it and the floor and while it was the size of a person, it was not in the shape of a person. While it was a very quick vision, i saw it within a moderate pace. Imagine as if someone were trying to walk slowly, as to not make a sound but walking confidently, as if they belonged but not wanting to be seen. eah. That’s about the best way to describe its speed.

 

With every experience I still remain skeptical and this instance was no different. I instinctively brush it off as my eyes playing tricks on me, and not wanting to scare my son, I remained silent and continued pulling the covers back, watching him climb out of my bed. I did find it odd that as he walked towards the doorway he kept tilting his head as if peeking around the corner, peering out into the hallway.

 

Within a few minutes he returned. I pulled the covers back for him to climb back into the bed and once nestled in beside me he whispered. “Hey Mommy.”

“Yes baby,” I say.

“Remember when I told you it felt like I had to go to the bathroom?”

“Yes?”

“Well when I looked out in the hallway i saw this white thing walking by.”

Yeah…my heart stopped.

I had at no time even remotely told him I’d seen something. Still, as to not scare him, I brushed his hair and said “it’s late baby, it’s probably just your eyes playing tricks on you.”

 

His words, in what he saw, matching my own, convinced me of what I’d seen and no one could convince me otherwise. The fact that we’d independently seen the same thing, yeah. It spoke volumes to me.

 

So naturally I set out to figure out what it could have been. The obvious of course, a spirit. But what kind? My intrigue in the paranormal world had been just that and aside from my group experiences with CVP, and with my father when my son was born, I’d not had any personal experiences so I had no clue what a white cloudy mass meant. Yeah insert Casper here.

 

Upon researching it seems what we saw that night might have very well been a benevolent apparition. An entity of a protective nature. One that I believe was a family member, specifically that of my paternal grandmother who raised me. Perhaps upon hearing my son crying, coming to watch over him, protect him as was her nature.

 

Whatever it was, and as uneventul and “non movie material” this night was, it was real. It was real for both me and my son whom I’m certain will never forget it. I know I won’t.

Poe Places: An historical East Coast journey in the footsteps of Edgar Allan Poe: Baltimore

It’s taken me over three years thus far to travel up and down the East Coast in search of the places entwined with the history of poet and writer, Edgar Allan Poe. His works have been such an inspiration to my own pen muse and he birthed my love of poetry. And since I’m OCD about everything, it makes perfect sense to divulge in every place Mr. Poe once lived, visited or has some historical tie to. Right? Right.

Edgar was born in Boston, Massachusetts to David and Elizabeth Poe. He had two siblings, older brother Henry and sister Rosalie. The children at a young age found themselves parentless as their father abandoned them and at the age of three, Edgar’s mother, a then actress in Richmond, Virginia, died of tuberculosis. The children were then separated. Henry was sent to live with his paternal grandparents in Boston, Rosalie to the McKenzie’s of Richmond and Edgar was adopted by John and Frances Allan, also of Richmond, Virginia.

While the places I have visited thus far are all of importance and have their own individual connection to Poe, they are not in historical order and notably the states of New York and Massachusetts I have yet to be visited which I hope to do in the future.

This stop brings me to the home of the Ravens…Baltimore, Maryland. Poe left quite a legacy to this bustling city so much so they honor his memory by naming their NFL team after one of his most popular poems. Poe spent a lot of his life here and fate it seemed was deemed the place for him to die.

My first stop had to be the most notable place that Baltimore offers. His grave.

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What more fitting a place for Poe’s final resting place than that of Westminster Hall, a converted gothic style church built above Westminster Burying Ground, creating catacombs. Upon discovering them I was disappointed that time wasn’t allowing me the opportunity to take one of the tours that the church offers.

Not only is Poe buried here but his wife Virginia and her mother Maria Clemm as well. Historically however Poe originally was buried in the back of the church grounds in an unmarked grave that today has a stone memorializing his original resting place. However just like all things Poe, rumors grew of the accuracy of the move. To read more about it, check out http://www.eapoe.org.

Because I’m a geek when it comes to Poe, I already knew this upon entering the church yard and knew exactly where to go hunting for the original memorial. Some other fans that happened to be there at the same time as myself, clearly weren’t as obsessed….errrr prepared as I was and didn’t have this little tid bit of information so naturally I offered to show them. My daughter took a picture of me guiding the tourists so as to memorialize my Poe geek status reaching its all time high. And no, I will not share it. Grrrrr. But I will show you where I took them.

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Because I have a natural love for cemeteries, not only was I snapping multiple pictures of the grounds but I found words brewing and wrote this as I came upon this corner with the broken stones.

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The church and the grounds were quite lovely and offered a moment of solitude amidst the extremely busy streets of downtown Baltimore that pretty much nearly swallow it.

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Located on the same street as the church just a short drive up the road is what is left of the home that Edgar lived in along with his Aunt and wife while in Baltimore.

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Operating now as a museum by the Edgar Allan Poe Society of Baltimore, the home was built around 1830 and was originally rented by Edgar’s aunt, Maria Clemm along with her mother, her daughter Virginia and Edgar. Poe left his family here however around August of 1835 moving to Richmond, Virginia where he’d been taken on as editor for the Southern Literary Messenger. Around this same time Ms. Clemm’s mother died resulting in a shortage of money and the family was faced with being unable to cover rent. Another family member having heard of their circumstances offered to take her and Virginia in but Edgar hearing the news and perhaps fearing he would lose his family, wrote a heartfelt letter proposing to Virginia at which she accepted and the family was rejoined in Richmond. Check out the emotional letters here. Good stuff. You won’t be disappointed.

http://www.eapoe.org/works/letters/p3508290.htm

The tour of the house includes poems and short stories that Poe wrote while in Baltimore, facts about his life and death and features Poe’s chair, lap desk and telescope. The room in which the items are set up is thought to be the room that he would have slept in so yeah of course, I was needing my salts. To think I was in the same room as the macabre master had once laid his head and no doubt dreamt up who knows how many of his short stories humbled me. It was surreal. Well, for me. And yeah, I stood there for a bit soaking the moment in.

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Upon leaving his home I went next to the Edgar Allan Poe Room at The Enoch Pratt Free Library and to say I was blown away by the appearance of the library itself is an understatement. The architecture geek in me was bleeding a smile. But I’ll refrain from getting sidetracked and sharing the gazillion pictures I took once inside.

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Dedicated to Poe on the 125th anniversary of his birth, The Edgar Allan Poe Room is in essence an exhibit of letters, memorabilia, and a copy of a daguerreotype of Poe by Thomas Corner. It is used as a meeting room and this is where my OCD kicked in when upon arriving I discovered it remained locked unless it was being used and was not typically open to the public. Obviously that wasn’t acceptable. I mean hello. So the determined five foot three inches Poe fiend went searching until I found the biggest security guard I’d ever seen. I smiled and told him without using said words such as geek or stalking or obsessed that I would like to see inside the Poe Room. He gave me a look over, grinned and said “for a just few minutes, follow me.” Ahhhhh and the rebel wins again!

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After snapping pictures like a bat out of hell and speed rushing through my oooooh’s and ahhhhh’s I thanked the very kind giant and continued my journey. I couldn’t help but think he was probably saying “another crazy white girl.” under his breath. I giggled. Yep. No doubt I fit that bill.

Although Poe lived quite some time in Baltimore, many of the places that had a connection with him have over the years been demolished, so those places I skipped this trip as their quite a few. But I got them written down in my trusty notebook aka Poe app. Yes. Poe app. Nevermind that. So lots of pictures of what now might be Taco Bell’s and laundry mats is in my future next trip.

I saved the saddest for last. The site where he died. Such a shame I didn’t have any of my paranormal investigation tools back then. Just saying. At his time this was the location of Washington College Hospital where he was brought after being found near dead on a street nearby. Four days later he was dead. Many stories surround the hospital including kidnapping and body snatching. Of course. You can read an in-depth article about it here. http://www.eapoe.org/balt/poechh.htm

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Thanks so much for reading and please make sure to check out my other write ups as I journey up and down the East Coast to feed my need. The struggle is real…

J

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just a rant

It is sometimes, no scratch that, most times hard for me to come to terms with the sincerity of a cold mind. The inability to have a conscious that has the power to strike you at any given time into a vulnerable coma.

I’ll never understand the capability of one such soul perhaps because of the way I see the world. The way my heart starts and stops again at all the beauty of what in truth God or science has given us. The way my heart bleeds at another’s misfortune. The way I smile at another’s triumphant battles. The way I feel when I hear a baby cry. The way my heart warms when I see an old couple hold hands. The compassion I have for an addict. The need to advocate for the mentally ill. The desire to adopt every single stray animal. The moment I capture the most breathtaking image.

I’m no angel. Far from it. I’ve made some fucked up choices. Many things I regret, resent and still haunt me. But you see I have the ability to recognize my own faults, to own them, to learn from them and most importantly to be apologetic when I should be and unapologetic for simply being me. The remorse I carry for poor decisions. The weight that burdens me from a broken spirit over and over again. Those are things I cannot push away. They own me. Every waking, breathing dirty broken moment. So how is it that others can go numb to any semblance of humanity?

Is it possible that somewhere even in those darkest of souls there lives good? Could it be possible that for every dark soul there is an equal darkness that covets enough light for the other to see? That somewhere, somehow goodness overcomes evil? Or does evil make everyone its whore? The older I get my hope is fading. I see now why my Grams had such hard lines upon her face yet did the best she could rearing me and my sister. She struggled with the same reality of humanity. I think there comes a time when all of us have to grow up out of the perfect world we paint it to be. Yet still, its hard to stomach. Even with every roadblock life has given me, it always will be. For those of us holding on to the pretty side of this fucked up world.

end of rant-

J

A picture is worth a thousand thoughts…

I do love when I stumble upon an image that stops me in my tracks. An image that is fueled with so many different emotions where the words just start screaming at me to come out. Below is one just image that will stick with me for a while followed by the words it evoked. The power of art, words and music and the beautiful path where they meet where imagination is born, inviting us on an epic journey…

 

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a bitter heart shall eat it’s owner

to embrace the knowledge

with the pain

shall lead

to the acceptance of that which

we haven’t the power to change…

J

 

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taste this poison in me

this massacre of years of love

besieging pieces once pure

my wanderlust of exquisite self destruction

J

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this world

battling constant choices

listening and derailing a million voices

blistering my mind

how I easily become confined

trust, a virtue I never seem to find its core

most times thinking but a folklore

words deceiving

eyes almost always reveiling

in silence I live

unsure how to give

a constant let down

just when I begin to think I found my crown

resolving to stay away

protecting what’s left from continued decay

J

 

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to the depths of your flame

a madness of lust fueled by your words

a journey past my every breaking point

in pieces I wait…

J

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Poe Places: a historial East Coast journey in the footsteps of Edgar Allan Poe: Philadelphia

It’s taken me over two year’s thus far  to travel up and down the East Coast in search of the notable places of poet and writer, Edgar Allan Poe. His works have been a notable muse to my own writing and the birth of my love of poetry. And since I’m OCD about everything, it makes perfect sense to divulge in every place Mr. Poe once lived, visited or has some historical tie to. Right? Right.

Edgar was born in Boston, Massachusetts to David and Elizabeth Poe. He had two siblings, older brother Henry and sister Rosalie. The children at a young age found themselves parentless as their father abandoned them and at the age of three, Edgar’s mother, a then actress in Richmond, Virginia, died of tuberculosis. The children were then separated. Henry was sent to live with his paternal grandparents in Boston, Rosalie to the McKenzie’s of Richmond and Edgar was adopted by John and Frances Allan, also of Richmond, Virginia.

While the places I have visited thus far are all of importance and have their own individual connection to Poe, they are not in historical order and notably the states of New York and Massachusetts have yet to be visited which I hope to do in the future.

My first stop took me to the city of brotherly love, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania where Poe resided for six years from 1838 until 1844. Here he lived with his wife/cousin Virginia and her mother, Maria Clemm. His time spent here is described as the happiest of his life. While most of the homes he lived in while in Philadelphia have been demolished, one still stands. It is the last home he lived in before he decided to leave with his young ailing wife with tuberculosis to the then tranquil outskirts of New York. Today the home located in the Spring Garden section of the city is owned and maintained by the state park service and listed on the registry of historical places.

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The home itself has been left to age with murals upon the walls depicting how the home would have looked when Poe lived within its walls.

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A room set up like a parlor lends a feel to the macabre feel that was Poe’s legacy. Within it contains many writings and advertisements over the years of Poe’s work. Also on display is a prized possession, a copy of the famous Annabelle Lee poem as written in Poe’s handwriting.

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Entering the basement the macabre feel continues with its spooky feel and truly one of my favorites among the whole house. Talk about getting some paranormal ju ju down here. Heck yeah.

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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—
            Namelessherefor 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 mortal 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 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 morrowhewill 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 lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
Sheshall press, ah, nevermore!
    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose 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—isthere 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,stillis 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 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!
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Next up the lively city of Baltimore, Maryland that holds beneath its branches quite a story of Poe’s footsteps…..

J

 

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