Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe - August version

[BobBradshaw]

v8A:
Daguerreotype of Edgar Allan Poe


You can see his sadness, spread
across his face like winter's pale light
over a frozen landscape. The light
is broken by Poe's familiar
dark coat and black cravat,
the same clothing worn
as if in mourning two years
after his wife’s death.

He would always recall Virginia
—his child bride—years into their marriage
gazing at him like a gosling
sighting her first moon….

When that first small drop of blood
trembled on her lower lip,
Poe withheld the truth,
holding her hand:
“It is just a ruptured capillary
in your throat”.

After all, hadn’t she been singing
when she collapsed on her beloved piano--
where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?

For years her health
would re-bloom for weeks
only to fail once more,
like a short spring…
fevers again crossing her brow,
blood spotting her white dress.

Poe was distraught, thoughts of her
like embers flying everywhere,
when walking, at work, and more
and more often in bars,
his grief as burning and as raw
as the whiskeys he drank.

His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, limp with sweat.
He longed to climb
into bed with her, to catch
what she had. Instead
he nursed her day and night,
his efforts futile, like water buckets
flung at a raging fire,

Poe at the end reduced to living
like a candle's faltering flame, vigilant
beside Virginia’s cold bedside.




v8:
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,
his thin, closed lips.

Two years before his child bride
and wife of eleven years,

Virginia, had died.
Virginia, who years after they married

Poe would sometimes catch
gazing at him like a gosling

sighting her first
moon….

Five years she coughed up 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 piano,

where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?

For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks

only to fail once more, like a short spring…
inevitably fevers crossed her brow

again, 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. Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere,

more and more often in bars,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys

he was determined to rot
his gut with.

His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp

with sweat. He longed to join her
in her bed, to catch consumption

and her burning fevers
the way a lit taper can light

another one nearby.
For the rest of his life

Poe lived like a candle's
faltering flame, vigilant

beside her cold bedside,
forever recalling his beloved

Virginia at the end, barely
breathing, a dying bank
of ash.


v7:

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.

Virginia, who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch

gazing at him like a gosling
sighting her first moon….

Five years she coughed up 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 piano,

where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?

For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks

only to fail again, like a short spring…
inevitably fevers crossed her brow

again, 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. 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 was 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 candle's

faltering flame, 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.

Virginia, who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch

gazing at him like a gosling
sighting her first moon….

Five years she coughed up 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, as if 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 candle's

faltering flame, vigilant
beside Virginia’s cold bedside.

[BobBradshaw]

I have 2 versions here where I have folded in Bernie's suggestions....v5 where the closing is in past tense, and v6 where I have the poem finish in present tense....is v5 stronger? Bob

[FranktheFrank]

I don't know Bob
really small points.
Present tense close may be better
your choice really.
Michael is coming back to this later
to workshop.

Some mornings I spend writing
and reading poems and some days
I have to go walking. Today it's walking
but I prefer writing.

[Bernie01]

a tough choice, but I think V5.

glad to see you stay with this troubled man and get the poem you wanted for him.


bernie

[BobBradshaw]

Thanks, Bernie... I owe most of what is good about this poem to you. You gave me another direction to go with it, as well as many essential ideas.

[BobBradshaw]

I have chosen to go with version 5....thx for everyone's input. Bob

[BobBradshaw]

I have shortened the poem a bit... Bob

[BobBradshaw]

I have revised the ending... Bob

[BobBradshaw]

I have reduced the poem to its core. Let me know if it works....Bob

[Michael (MV)]

Hi Bob,

I have been drafting an extensive workshop; it's still not complete; yet here on the 27th, I'm posting what I have completed. I hope to continue to poem's finale- not certain, but I do hope to . . .


too much "Poe" from the start(the same below w/ the intro of Virginia Clemm) - the title, then the name pops-up in the next 2 stanzas

Maybe the title just as "Daguerreotype 1839" - that the subject is Mr. Poe is apparent in the body.


then the first stanzas, with Poe language & references.

You can see the miasma of Edgar Allan Poe
creep like winter's light

over a frozen landscape, only to be broken
by the raven-man's familiar

dark coat and black cravat,
and by his slightly tilted face,

^^ those 2 lines maybe thinned to:

dark coat, black cravat,
and his slightly tilted face,


This passage may not be needed:

"Two years before his child bride

and wife of eleven years, Virginia,
had died." (the reader learns - if they didn't know already - she dies of consumption)

^^ instead incorporated as:

Years into their 11-year marriage
Poe could still glimpse Virginia,

his child-bride gazing at her beloved husband
like a gosling sighting her first moon….

^^ then at this point in the narrative, w/ the pronouncement of "that first small drop" there is natural shift


When that first small drop
trembled on the lower lip,

Poe held his wife's hand, assuringly:
“It is just a ruptured capillary in your throat”.

Hadn’t she been singing
when she collapsed onto their piano,

where Edgar had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?

For years Virginia's health
re-bloomed again for weeks

only to wan once more, like a curtailed spring…
fevers crossing her brow once more

blood spotting her white dress,
then adrift bedridden,

restless as leaves
raked by hot gusts.

^^ then at this point in the narrative, another natural shift to the third part, which I hope to share workshop on in the near future.




Virginia leaves & Edgar follows
the lead of Annabel Lee
like Romeo & Juliet

like on the other side of the 19tC Atlantic
Heathcliff following Cathy

to the Heights beyond the wuthering




Michael (MV)

v8:
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.

Virginia, who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch

gazing at him like a gosling
sighting her first moon….

Five years she coughed up 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 piano,

where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?

For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks

only to fail once more, like a short spring…
inevitably fevers crossed her brow

again, 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. Thoughts of her
like embers flew everywhere,

more and more often in bars,
his grief as raw as the whiskeys

he was determined to rot
his gut with.

His hands jittery, he stroked
her hair, wet and limp

with sweat. For the rest of his life
Poe lived like a candle's

faltering flame, vigilant
beside her cold bedside,

his beloved Virginia forever
a dying bank of ash.


v7:

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.

Virginia, who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch

gazing at him like a gosling
sighting her first moon….

Five years she coughed up 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 piano,

where Poe had taught her
Mozart's Divertimento in F?

For years she regrouped,
health blooming again for weeks

only to fail again, like a short spring…
inevitably fevers crossed her brow

again, 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. 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 was 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 candle's

faltering flame, 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.

Virginia, who years after they married
Poe would sometimes catch

gazing at him like a gosling
sighting her first moon….

Five years she coughed up 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, as if 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 candle's

faltering flame, vigilant
beside Virginia’s cold bedside.

[BobBradshaw]

I like your suggestions for the most part... maybe I’ll go with v8 instead of v9, with your ideas folded in...and see how it feels...Thx, Michael

[BobBradshaw]

Thanks, Michael. I have applied a number of your suggestions in v8A....let me know...Bob

[BobBradshaw]

Modified

[BobBradshaw]

I have revised and shortened the poem....

[Kenneth2816]

Drink absinthe. Its done ✌