A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
-
- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
v6:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
You can see Poe’s sadness, spread
like winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
dark coat, his black bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia,
had died. That same girl
who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch
gazing at him as if he
were her first moon….
Five years she coughed up cups
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe assured her,
“It is a ruptured
blood vessel in your throat”.
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
only to fail again, a short spring…
but then fevers crossed her brow
blood spotting her white dress,
and she was bedridden,
adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each relapse worse than anything before.
Poe tortured, more distraught--
exhausted, heaving water buckets
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger.
It’s then thoughts of her
like embers fly everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath sours,
his grief raw as the whiskeys
he rots his gut with.
His hands jittery, he strokes
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia is barely breathing,
a dying bank of ash.
For the rest of his life
Poe lives like a trembling candle,
vigilant beside Virginia’s cold bedside.
v5:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
You can see Poe’s sadness, spread
like winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
dark coat, his black bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia,
had died. That same girl
who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch
gazing at him as if he
were her first moon….
Five years she coughed up cups
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe assured her,
“It is just a ruptured
blood vessel in your throat”.
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
only to fail again, a short spring…
but then fevers crossed her brow
blood spotting her white dress,
and she was bedridden,
adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each relapse worse than anything before.
Poe tortured, more distraught--
exhausted, heaving water buckets
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger.
Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath soured,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys
he seemed determined to rot
his gut with.
His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia was barely breathing,
a dying bank of ash. For the rest of his life
Poe lived like a trembling candle
vigilant beside Virginia’s cold bedside.
v4:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
You can see Poe’s sadness, spread
like winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
dark coat, his black bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia--
--as charming as a robin singing
at dawn--had died. For five years
she would cough up cups
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe had assured her it was just
"a ruptured blood vessel".
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
at a time, like a short spring,
but always fevers crossed her brow
again, blood heaved up
onto her white dresses,
and she would be bedridden,
once more, adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each time she worsened
Poe turned more distraught--
exhausted, as if he was heaving
buckets of water alone
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger
than before. Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath soured,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys
he seemed determined to rot
his gut with.
His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia was barely breathing,
like a bank of ash. For the rest of his life
Poe lived like the candle trembling
by Virginia’s bedside,
a restless flame,
faltering.
v3:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
His biggest faltering was drink,
often spilled on his black frock coat,
and he was that frock coat worn
every day to work,
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright. But nothing,
nothing could help his wife, Virginia.
She collapsed, blood trembling
on her lower lip—a bright red blood
like his mother’s. And he was always
his mother's consumption,
her lingering despair. An orphan
with an orphan's heart, he was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink,
his hands jittery, but drink
could not erase the memory
of blood on his wife's lip--or memory
of his restless mother,
her breath ragged and as restless
as the boy watching. Look
at this daguerreotype...look
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
across a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock coat, by his familiar bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
haggard, without love.
Unloved, he yearned for a woman
like Virginia, soft as her southern
accent. Instead southern whiskey,
raw as grief, accompanied him
his last days: a grief
that matched his coat's darkness.
He wore it everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
v2:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
His biggest faltering was drink,
often spilled on his black frock coat,
and he was that frock coat worn
every day to work,
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright--but not when,
not when his dear wife, Virginia, collapsed
at her beloved piano.
He was her piano's keys, trembling
as she spit up blood--like his mother--
and he was always his mother's consumption,
her illness, her lingering despair.
He retains that despair
in his portrait's foggy eyes.
Look closely at those eyes,
staring off into the horizon.
He was a horizon his colleagues
could never approach.
Who could approach a gentleman
"who never smiled"? He was an orphan
with an orphan's heart. He was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink,
his hands trembling. Drink
could not erase the memory
of blood on his wife's lip--or memory
of his restless mother,
her breath ragged and as restless
as the boy watching. Look
closely at this daguerreotype...look
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock coat, by his familiar bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
is as haggard as his coat--
but he needed more than a coat.
His whole life he yearned
for the tenderness of a woman. He yearned
to write, but also to love
and be loved. He needed a woman
like Virginia, soft as his southern
accent. Instead southern whiskey,
raw as grief, escorted him
his last days: a grief
that matched his coat's darkness.
He wore it everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
v1:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
His biggest faltering was drink,
often spilled on his black frock coat,
and he was that frock coat worn
every day to work,
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright--but not when,
not when his dear wife collapsed
at her beloved piano.
He was her piano's keys, trembling
as she spit up blood--like his mother--
and he was always his mother's consumption,
her illness, her lingering despair.
He retains that despair
in his portrait's foggy eyes.
Look closely at those eyes,
staring off into the horizon.
He was a horizon his colleagues
could never approach.
Who could approach a gentleman
"who never smiled"? He was an orphan
with an orphan's heart. He was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink.
Drink was his last refuge,
something to disappear into.
When we look into this daguerreotype
there is a sadness spread
across his face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock, by his familiar bow tie,
his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
is as haggard as his coat.
Even at the end his coat
is worn, raven black, a darkness
he wore everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
You can see Poe’s sadness, spread
like winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
dark coat, his black bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia,
had died. That same girl
who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch
gazing at him as if he
were her first moon….
Five years she coughed up cups
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe assured her,
“It is a ruptured
blood vessel in your throat”.
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
only to fail again, a short spring…
but then fevers crossed her brow
blood spotting her white dress,
and she was bedridden,
adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each relapse worse than anything before.
Poe tortured, more distraught--
exhausted, heaving water buckets
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger.
It’s then thoughts of her
like embers fly everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath sours,
his grief raw as the whiskeys
he rots his gut with.
His hands jittery, he strokes
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia is barely breathing,
a dying bank of ash.
For the rest of his life
Poe lives like a trembling candle,
vigilant beside Virginia’s cold bedside.
v5:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
You can see Poe’s sadness, spread
like winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
dark coat, his black bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia,
had died. That same girl
who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch
gazing at him as if he
were her first moon….
Five years she coughed up cups
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe assured her,
“It is just a ruptured
blood vessel in your throat”.
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
only to fail again, a short spring…
but then fevers crossed her brow
blood spotting her white dress,
and she was bedridden,
adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each relapse worse than anything before.
Poe tortured, more distraught--
exhausted, heaving water buckets
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger.
Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath soured,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys
he seemed determined to rot
his gut with.
His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia was barely breathing,
a dying bank of ash. For the rest of his life
Poe lived like a trembling candle
vigilant beside Virginia’s cold bedside.
v4:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
You can see Poe’s sadness, spread
like winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
dark coat, his black bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia--
--as charming as a robin singing
at dawn--had died. For five years
she would cough up cups
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe had assured her it was just
"a ruptured blood vessel".
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
at a time, like a short spring,
but always fevers crossed her brow
again, blood heaved up
onto her white dresses,
and she would be bedridden,
once more, adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each time she worsened
Poe turned more distraught--
exhausted, as if he was heaving
buckets of water alone
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger
than before. Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath soured,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys
he seemed determined to rot
his gut with.
His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia was barely breathing,
like a bank of ash. For the rest of his life
Poe lived like the candle trembling
by Virginia’s bedside,
a restless flame,
faltering.
v3:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
His biggest faltering was drink,
often spilled on his black frock coat,
and he was that frock coat worn
every day to work,
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright. But nothing,
nothing could help his wife, Virginia.
She collapsed, blood trembling
on her lower lip—a bright red blood
like his mother’s. And he was always
his mother's consumption,
her lingering despair. An orphan
with an orphan's heart, he was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink,
his hands jittery, but drink
could not erase the memory
of blood on his wife's lip--or memory
of his restless mother,
her breath ragged and as restless
as the boy watching. Look
at this daguerreotype...look
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
across a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock coat, by his familiar bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
haggard, without love.
Unloved, he yearned for a woman
like Virginia, soft as her southern
accent. Instead southern whiskey,
raw as grief, accompanied him
his last days: a grief
that matched his coat's darkness.
He wore it everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
v2:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
His biggest faltering was drink,
often spilled on his black frock coat,
and he was that frock coat worn
every day to work,
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright--but not when,
not when his dear wife, Virginia, collapsed
at her beloved piano.
He was her piano's keys, trembling
as she spit up blood--like his mother--
and he was always his mother's consumption,
her illness, her lingering despair.
He retains that despair
in his portrait's foggy eyes.
Look closely at those eyes,
staring off into the horizon.
He was a horizon his colleagues
could never approach.
Who could approach a gentleman
"who never smiled"? He was an orphan
with an orphan's heart. He was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink,
his hands trembling. Drink
could not erase the memory
of blood on his wife's lip--or memory
of his restless mother,
her breath ragged and as restless
as the boy watching. Look
closely at this daguerreotype...look
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock coat, by his familiar bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
is as haggard as his coat--
but he needed more than a coat.
His whole life he yearned
for the tenderness of a woman. He yearned
to write, but also to love
and be loved. He needed a woman
like Virginia, soft as his southern
accent. Instead southern whiskey,
raw as grief, escorted him
his last days: a grief
that matched his coat's darkness.
He wore it everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
v1:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
His biggest faltering was drink,
often spilled on his black frock coat,
and he was that frock coat worn
every day to work,
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright--but not when,
not when his dear wife collapsed
at her beloved piano.
He was her piano's keys, trembling
as she spit up blood--like his mother--
and he was always his mother's consumption,
her illness, her lingering despair.
He retains that despair
in his portrait's foggy eyes.
Look closely at those eyes,
staring off into the horizon.
He was a horizon his colleagues
could never approach.
Who could approach a gentleman
"who never smiled"? He was an orphan
with an orphan's heart. He was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink.
Drink was his last refuge,
something to disappear into.
When we look into this daguerreotype
there is a sadness spread
across his face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock, by his familiar bow tie,
his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
is as haggard as his coat.
Even at the end his coat
is worn, raven black, a darkness
he wore everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
-
- Posts: 1619
- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Once again a famous artist softened st your hand. I have no particular suggestions to offer other than
some compression, a bit of pruning.
He is so iconic (got his own t shirt) that I feel no need to chronicle all of him.
I did read in Oxford History of the American People, he was "collected" from a known house of I'll repute that catered to the low classes.The author says at election time, this was common and bail could be obtained by agreeing to be transported to the pills to vote the right way.
He died during the night, unknown
some compression, a bit of pruning.
He is so iconic (got his own t shirt) that I feel no need to chronicle all of him.
I did read in Oxford History of the American People, he was "collected" from a known house of I'll repute that catered to the low classes.The author says at election time, this was common and bail could be obtained by agreeing to be transported to the pills to vote the right way.
He died during the night, unknown
-
- Posts: 2154
- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Hi Bob,
as a patron of Poe, and your poetry, Bob,
upon my 1st read-thru
this is an uneven draft
of a poem
about an iconic poet
by an accomplished contemporary poet
Bob, have you seen this watercolor portrait of a Poe ante-daguerreotype (before the fall of the house):
https://www.salon.com/2010/01/18/us_poe_portrait/
http://archive.boston.com/news/nation/a ... e_macabre/
^^ perhaps the prompt for a companion piece re a younger Poe; or as seem in the pairing might serve as a foil in the current poem-in-progress
Michael (MV)
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Bob---
on the road, no time to look at this carefully....but two impressions:
this is too plain---
Drink was his last refuge,
something to disappear into.
compared with this:
across his face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
also, fasten on the man, did he stumble? any friends? his speech pattern---southern?
make him more personal to me...
will return.
bernie
on the road, no time to look at this carefully....but two impressions:
this is too plain---
Drink was his last refuge,
something to disappear into.
compared with this:
across his face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
also, fasten on the man, did he stumble? any friends? his speech pattern---southern?
make him more personal to me...
will return.
bernie
-
- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Yes, thank you guys...I am looking for ideas... it is definitely uneven
-
- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Thanks, Michael... the article was fun, a different perspective of Poe
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- Posts: 1987
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
A complete biography of the famous poet
in one poem, you definately have a skill
in these life works Bob.
in one poem, you definately have a skill
in these life works Bob.
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- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Thanks, Frank....I have revised and cut some....
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- Joined: 01 Jun 2008, 09:17
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
You know what? Most of your poems about Mozart were relatively short.This is different. It may be that you will return to it many times. I've had poems like that. They meant something to me or the subject was
more complex than those i usually write about.
The poet is more than capable of tendering something worthy of this subject. Don't rush it, move on and come back. I think it's great
more complex than those i usually write about.
The poet is more than capable of tendering something worthy of this subject. Don't rush it, move on and come back. I think it's great
-
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- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
Thanks, Kenneth...I have tweaked the poem some....
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Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Revised...let me know what you think
-
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- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Hi Bob,
I haven't been as available for workshopping; I had hoped to return to your Poe poem -
I had hoped it might represent this month(June) -
but reading the latest revision this morning, I believe there is still workshopping to fine tune -
and then maybe, perhaps, if you revise it more in the next 28 days, it might represent the WB next month in the July IBPC -
or at least I hope to nominate it at that time
Can't workshop at this time - hope to do so in the near future
Michael (MV)
-
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- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Thanks, Michael...
-
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- Joined: 18 Apr 2005, 04:57
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
seems the poem needs to be more spectral on the surface - still too wordy -- Michael (MV)
BobBradshaw wrote:Thanks, Michael...
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Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Ok, thanks....hmmm....spectral takes it in a very different direction....but it's a good idea
-
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Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Maybe a little wordy to start and in places:
How about:
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, as obvious
as winter's pale light
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
How about:
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, as obvious
as winter's pale light
-
- Posts: 1987
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Maybe a little wordy to start and in places:
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, as obvious
as winter's pale light
A son with a dying mother,
a bedside's quivering candle.
It's dark throughout, he never had a chance.
But surely there was happiness
before the darkness overwhelmed him.
He must have had happy moments,
wouldn't that comparsion accentuate
his darkness.
Maybe you're trying too hard to show
his plight.
How about:at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
at the sadness spread
across Poe's face, as obvious
as winter's pale light
Or:He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
A son with a dying mother,
a bedside's quivering candle.
It's dark throughout, he never had a chance.
But surely there was happiness
before the darkness overwhelmed him.
He must have had happy moments,
wouldn't that comparsion accentuate
his darkness.
Maybe you're trying too hard to show
his plight.
-
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Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
All good points, Frank... thx. Actually the poem is a mess...probably needs to be knocked to its knees, and slowly helped up again...
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Bob---
you have plenty poem....easier to cut down, than build up.
no telling. and i avoid journalism.
v3:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
is his mother important? is there any other way to characterize poe's early years?
He was a clumsy drinker and often
spilled rotgut on his every day frock coat.
Poe attacked his work savagely.
He gave no quarter to his reader or himself.
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright. But nothing,
nothing could help his wife, Virginia.
She collapsed, blood trembling
missed opportunity to paint a quick image of this woman he loved....
on her lower lip—a bright red blood
like his mother’s. And he was always
his mother's consumption,
her lingering despair. An orphan
with an orphan's heart, he was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink,
to me, too telly.
awful lot of mom here---again, do you want her to be front and center?
his hands jittery, but drink
could not erase the memory
of blood on his wife's lip--or memory
of his restless mother,
her breath ragged and as restless
as the boy watching. Look
at this daguerreotype...look
at the sadness spread
ah, an image....i 'm grateful....
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
across a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock coat, by his familiar bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
haggard, without love.
returning to the frock coat? why...something else...a nervous tick? left handed or right? using a stub of pencil, what kind of paper? did he hunch over his desk? the room lit by a single lamp? cold?
what books of other writers might we see scattered about?
Unloved, he yearned for a woman
like Virginia, soft as her southern
accent. Instead southern whiskey,
raw as grief, accompanied him
his last days: a grief
that matched his coat's darkness.
He wore it everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
the coat, drink and sadness.
how can you make this soul sickness of his more real to me?
he was a fabulous character, lets give him that.
“I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.” —”The Tell-Tale Heart”
here, writing to mom:
Virginia very ill with tuberculosis
1. My own darling, beloved Mother —
May God grand that this letter, so long delayed, may find you well — I ask no more — for I have been tortured, almost to death, by horrible dreams, in which I fancied that you were ill and helpless and I so far away from you. Oh, my dear, dear, good Muddy, I never knew the depth of my affection for you until this long and terrible separation.
2.
from a writer published in the Paris Review:
179 years ago today, it was OK to marry your underage first cousin — and Poe did exactly that with Virginia Eliza Clemm.
Like so many aspects of Edgar Allan Poe’s life (including his death), the nature of his marriage to his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia Eliza Clemm, is shrouded in mystery. The two first met in 1829, when Clemm was seven years old. Her widowed mother Maria had then allowed the 20-year-old Poe, who had been orphaned in his youth and more recently discharged from the military, to stay with her family. Clemm adored Poe, following him on long walks in the countryside and even delivering his love letters to a neighbor — until, that is, his affections turned to her. It’s said that the pair attended strangers’ funerals, held each other and cried. (Oh, the Poe folklore!)
Poe and Clemm decided to marry, but Maria didn’t approve of their age difference — 13 years — or Poe’s financial situation — he had just been fired from the Southern Literary Messenger for on-duty drunkenness. Regardless, the couple eloped in Baltimore on September 22, 1835, and made their marriage public with a ceremony in Richmond, Virginia, on May 16, 1836. The wedding was held that spring evening at a boarding house, where the couple and Maria stayed the night. A Presbyterian minister officiated the union, and the couple honeymooned briefly in Petersburg, Virginia, on the Appomattox River.
Poe and Clemm’s familial ties weren’t scandalous for the time — marriage between first cousins was legal in all states before the Civil War — but biographer Kenneth Silverman believes their stark difference in age sparked disapproval. Though Virginia claimed she was 21 years old on their marriage certificate, she was, at the time, only 13 — half the age Poe.
The marriage came at a productive time for Poe. A month before the couple eloped, his contributions to the Southern Literary Messenger had earned him a position as assistant editor; this was the post he would lose for drinking, but he was reinstated after promising better behavior. Poe continued to work for the Messenger until 1837, leaving then for Burton’s Gentleman's Magazine, where he published countless stories, poems and critiques.
Clemm’s handwritten Valentine poem to Poe, 1846 (via Wikipedia )
Clemm’s handwritten Valentine poem to Poe, 1846 (via Wikipedia)
Poe and Clemm never had any children and never alluded to anything sexual in their letters. Biographers have claimed that the two had a kind, devoted bond, but one more like brother and sister than husband and wife. Indeed, in letters, Clemm was Poe’s “Sis” or “Sissy.” Clemm may have even encouraged Poe’s scandalous friendship with the married 34-year-old poet Frances Sargent Osgood, delivering notes between the two in a fashion similar to that of her childhood. This eventually triggered a messy love triangle — not with Clemm, but with Elizabeth F. Ellet, a fellow poet and Poe admirer who became wildly jealous of Osgood and spread rumors about their affair and Poe’s “lunacy.” The ordeal eventually died down, but it tarnished Poe’s reputation and Clemm never forgot it. Famously, the incident inspired her 1846 Valentine poem to Poe about the “tattling of many tongues.”
As folklore will have it, on her deathbed, Clemm declared Ellet her murderer. Years before, in January of 1842, while singing and playing the piano, Clemm began to bleed from her mouth. Poe had believed it was just “a ruptured blood-vessel,” but it was in fact the first sign of tuberculosis. Her struggle with the disease set her husband into a “horrible never-ending oscillation between hope & despair,” as he would detail in a letter to a friend:
Each time I felt all the agonies of her death — and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly & clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive — nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
Unable to cope with Clemm’s illness, Poe began drinking heavily. For years, his wife’s health wavered between near death and more promising days of garden-tending and harp-playing. On January 30, 1847, Clemm succumbed, following 11 years of marriage to Poe.
Readers occasionally like to believe that Clemm is the beautiful, dark-haired girl who dies young in so many of her husband's stories, like “The Raven,” “Annabel Lee” and “Ligeia.” Poe had admired other women before marrying and saw other women after Clemm’s death, so it’s debatable, yet a story like “Ligeia” is hard to disassociate from her:
Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too — too glorious effulgence; the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen hue of the grave, and the blue veins upon the lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the gentle emotion. I saw that she must die — and I struggled desperately in spirit with the grim Azrael. … Words are impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with the Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. Would have soothed — I would have reasoned; but, in the intensity of her wild desire for life — for life — but for life — solace and reason were the uttermost folly.
Whether or not Clemm was Poe’s muse can be debated, but she did undoubtedly strike something within him, setting into play an intensity that would define his work long after his own demise.
anything in this bio you like?
https://www.biography.com/news/edgar-al ... eath-facts
bernie
you have plenty poem....easier to cut down, than build up.
no telling. and i avoid journalism.
v3:
A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849
He was the boy in his dying mother's room,
the bedside's quivering candle.
He was that candle all his days,
a restless flame, faltering.
is his mother important? is there any other way to characterize poe's early years?
He was a clumsy drinker and often
spilled rotgut on his every day frock coat.
Poe attacked his work savagely.
He gave no quarter to his reader or himself.
and it was the work that kept
Poe upright. But nothing,
nothing could help his wife, Virginia.
She collapsed, blood trembling
missed opportunity to paint a quick image of this woman he loved....
on her lower lip—a bright red blood
like his mother’s. And he was always
his mother's consumption,
her lingering despair. An orphan
with an orphan's heart, he was at risk
of always being abandoned
by those he loved. Abandoned,
he would turn to drink,
to me, too telly.
awful lot of mom here---again, do you want her to be front and center?
his hands jittery, but drink
could not erase the memory
of blood on his wife's lip--or memory
of his restless mother,
her breath ragged and as restless
as the boy watching. Look
at this daguerreotype...look
at the sadness spread
ah, an image....i 'm grateful....
across Poe's face, spread as obvious
as winter's pale light
across a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
frock coat, by his familiar bow tie,
by his slightly tilted face,
his thin, closed lips. His face
haggard, without love.
returning to the frock coat? why...something else...a nervous tick? left handed or right? using a stub of pencil, what kind of paper? did he hunch over his desk? the room lit by a single lamp? cold?
what books of other writers might we see scattered about?
Unloved, he yearned for a woman
like Virginia, soft as her southern
accent. Instead southern whiskey,
raw as grief, accompanied him
his last days: a grief
that matched his coat's darkness.
He wore it everywhere, a darkness
captured here in his eyes.
the coat, drink and sadness.
how can you make this soul sickness of his more real to me?
he was a fabulous character, lets give him that.
“I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him.” —”The Tell-Tale Heart”
here, writing to mom:
Virginia very ill with tuberculosis
1. My own darling, beloved Mother —
May God grand that this letter, so long delayed, may find you well — I ask no more — for I have been tortured, almost to death, by horrible dreams, in which I fancied that you were ill and helpless and I so far away from you. Oh, my dear, dear, good Muddy, I never knew the depth of my affection for you until this long and terrible separation.
2.
from a writer published in the Paris Review:
179 years ago today, it was OK to marry your underage first cousin — and Poe did exactly that with Virginia Eliza Clemm.
Like so many aspects of Edgar Allan Poe’s life (including his death), the nature of his marriage to his 13-year-old cousin, Virginia Eliza Clemm, is shrouded in mystery. The two first met in 1829, when Clemm was seven years old. Her widowed mother Maria had then allowed the 20-year-old Poe, who had been orphaned in his youth and more recently discharged from the military, to stay with her family. Clemm adored Poe, following him on long walks in the countryside and even delivering his love letters to a neighbor — until, that is, his affections turned to her. It’s said that the pair attended strangers’ funerals, held each other and cried. (Oh, the Poe folklore!)
Poe and Clemm decided to marry, but Maria didn’t approve of their age difference — 13 years — or Poe’s financial situation — he had just been fired from the Southern Literary Messenger for on-duty drunkenness. Regardless, the couple eloped in Baltimore on September 22, 1835, and made their marriage public with a ceremony in Richmond, Virginia, on May 16, 1836. The wedding was held that spring evening at a boarding house, where the couple and Maria stayed the night. A Presbyterian minister officiated the union, and the couple honeymooned briefly in Petersburg, Virginia, on the Appomattox River.
Poe and Clemm’s familial ties weren’t scandalous for the time — marriage between first cousins was legal in all states before the Civil War — but biographer Kenneth Silverman believes their stark difference in age sparked disapproval. Though Virginia claimed she was 21 years old on their marriage certificate, she was, at the time, only 13 — half the age Poe.
The marriage came at a productive time for Poe. A month before the couple eloped, his contributions to the Southern Literary Messenger had earned him a position as assistant editor; this was the post he would lose for drinking, but he was reinstated after promising better behavior. Poe continued to work for the Messenger until 1837, leaving then for Burton’s Gentleman's Magazine, where he published countless stories, poems and critiques.
Clemm’s handwritten Valentine poem to Poe, 1846 (via Wikipedia )
Clemm’s handwritten Valentine poem to Poe, 1846 (via Wikipedia)
Poe and Clemm never had any children and never alluded to anything sexual in their letters. Biographers have claimed that the two had a kind, devoted bond, but one more like brother and sister than husband and wife. Indeed, in letters, Clemm was Poe’s “Sis” or “Sissy.” Clemm may have even encouraged Poe’s scandalous friendship with the married 34-year-old poet Frances Sargent Osgood, delivering notes between the two in a fashion similar to that of her childhood. This eventually triggered a messy love triangle — not with Clemm, but with Elizabeth F. Ellet, a fellow poet and Poe admirer who became wildly jealous of Osgood and spread rumors about their affair and Poe’s “lunacy.” The ordeal eventually died down, but it tarnished Poe’s reputation and Clemm never forgot it. Famously, the incident inspired her 1846 Valentine poem to Poe about the “tattling of many tongues.”
As folklore will have it, on her deathbed, Clemm declared Ellet her murderer. Years before, in January of 1842, while singing and playing the piano, Clemm began to bleed from her mouth. Poe had believed it was just “a ruptured blood-vessel,” but it was in fact the first sign of tuberculosis. Her struggle with the disease set her husband into a “horrible never-ending oscillation between hope & despair,” as he would detail in a letter to a friend:
Each time I felt all the agonies of her death — and at each accession of the disorder I loved her more dearly & clung to her life with more desperate pertinacity. But I am constitutionally sensitive — nervous in a very unusual degree. I became insane, with long intervals of horrible sanity.
Unable to cope with Clemm’s illness, Poe began drinking heavily. For years, his wife’s health wavered between near death and more promising days of garden-tending and harp-playing. On January 30, 1847, Clemm succumbed, following 11 years of marriage to Poe.
Readers occasionally like to believe that Clemm is the beautiful, dark-haired girl who dies young in so many of her husband's stories, like “The Raven,” “Annabel Lee” and “Ligeia.” Poe had admired other women before marrying and saw other women after Clemm’s death, so it’s debatable, yet a story like “Ligeia” is hard to disassociate from her:
Ligeia grew ill. The wild eyes blazed with a too — too glorious effulgence; the pale fingers became of the transparent waxen hue of the grave, and the blue veins upon the lofty forehead swelled and sank impetuously with the tides of the gentle emotion. I saw that she must die — and I struggled desperately in spirit with the grim Azrael. … Words are impotent to convey any just idea of the fierceness of resistance with which she wrestled with the Shadow. I groaned in anguish at the pitiable spectacle. Would have soothed — I would have reasoned; but, in the intensity of her wild desire for life — for life — but for life — solace and reason were the uttermost folly.
Whether or not Clemm was Poe’s muse can be debated, but she did undoubtedly strike something within him, setting into play an intensity that would define his work long after his own demise.
anything in this bio you like?
https://www.biography.com/news/edgar-al ... eath-facts
bernie
-
- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Thanks, Bernie... I like your ideas, comments...I will heavily revise based on your input... best
-
- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
revised...let me know...thx
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Bob:
Ah, V4 works far better for me.
....thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia--
might reconsider:
Virginia--
--as charming as a robin singing
at dawn--
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe had assured her it was just
"a ruptured blood vessel".
would use current tense....
Poe assured her it is a ruptured
blood vessel....
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
(love that sensitive and unexpected detail---bernie)
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
only to fail again....
a short spring,
but then fevers crossed her brow
blood spotting her white dress,
and she was bedridden,
adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each relapse worse than anything before.
Poe tortured, more distraught--
exhausted, heaving water buckets
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger.
Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath soured,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys
he seemed determined to rot
his gut with.
His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia was barely breathing,
a dying bank of ash. For the rest of his life
Poe lived like a trembling candle
vigilant beside Virginia’s cold bedside.
big subject.
one important trick, to render the subject without the technique of a journalist telling a story---we want showing of the subject, yes?
this one getting very close now.
bernie
Ah, V4 works far better for me.
....thin, closed lips.
Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years, Virginia--
might reconsider:
Virginia--
--as charming as a robin singing
at dawn--
of blood. But when that first small drop
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe had assured her it was just
"a ruptured blood vessel".
would use current tense....
Poe assured her it is a ruptured
blood vessel....
Hadn’t she been singing when
she collapsed onto her beloved piano,
where Poe taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?
(love that sensitive and unexpected detail---bernie)
For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks
only to fail again....
a short spring,
but then fevers crossed her brow
blood spotting her white dress,
and she was bedridden,
adrift, restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.
Each relapse worse than anything before.
Poe tortured, more distraught--
exhausted, heaving water buckets
onto a raging fire,
that would dampen only
to leap up stronger.
Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere
while walking, at work,
more and more often
in bars. His breath soured,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys
he seemed determined to rot
his gut with.
His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp
with sweat. At the end
Virginia was barely breathing,
a dying bank of ash. For the rest of his life
Poe lived like a trembling candle
vigilant beside Virginia’s cold bedside.
big subject.
one important trick, to render the subject without the technique of a journalist telling a story---we want showing of the subject, yes?
this one getting very close now.
bernie
-
- Posts: 1987
- Joined: 02 Mar 2016, 18:07
- Location: Between the mountains and the sea
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Marvellous turnaround Bob
much to like about this version
I like Bernie's suggestions.
much to like about this version
I like Bernie's suggestions.
-
- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
Frank, thx for the encouragement
Bernie, you have given great suggestions... I will certainly incorporate your ideas and try to build on them...thank you
Bernie, you have given great suggestions... I will certainly incorporate your ideas and try to build on them...thank you
-
- Posts: 2688
- Joined: 03 Jun 2016, 21:03
Re: A Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe, 1849 -- revised
I have introduced 2 newer versions, v5 with tense in the past, v6 switching at the close to present tense.