Did everyone go
out this weekend and celebrate Halloween in some way or another? I actually did
this year, which is rare. The last time I dressed up was I think eight years
ago. This year I did the utter least in way of costume which was to dress as a
cat with just my actual wardrobe, a scarf for ears and a yoga mat string thing
for a tail. Needless to say it was very basic but who cares! I was moved by the
H-ween spirit this year and going to a fete and walking around the city seeing people
in lame to amazingly impressive costumes and general mischievous joviality
warmed even the most cynical of hearts.
I know that
Halloween is technically a few days away but heck, I don't have kids so it’s
already over for me but to keep with the spirit of the season I thought it
would be nice to share some poems by American Goth #1, Edgar Allen Poe.
I love Poe’s
writing. I always say that Poe has a terrible PR manager because he has this
silly perception of being a twee-goth in a whoa-is-me sort of way but he is
actually quite a literary technician and he is a sort of American writer that
is of the place and time in which he lived and imagined.
Enjoy the
turning of seasons and may you find tricks and treats to sustain you for
the coming long winter days.
Edgar Allen Poe (1809–1849)
Alone
From childhood’s
hour I have not been
As others were—I
have not seen
As others saw—I
could not bring
My passions from
a common spring—
From the same
source I have not taken
My sorrow—I
could not awaken
My heart to joy
at the same tone—
And all I lov’d—I lov’d
alone—
Then—in my childhood—in the dawn
Of a most stormy
life—was drawn
From ev’ry depth
of good and ill
The mystery
which binds me still—
From the
torrent, or the fountain—
From the red
cliff of the mountain—
From the sun
that ’round me roll’d
In its autumn
tint of gold—
From the
lightning in the sky
As it pass’d me
flying by—
From the
thunder, and the storm—
And the cloud
that took the form
(When the rest
of Heaven was blue)
Of a demon in my
view—
A Dream
Within a Dream
Take this kiss
upon the brow!
And, in parting
from you now,
Thus much let me
avow —
You are not
wrong, who deem
That my days
have been a dream;
Yet if hope has
flown away
In a night, or
in a day,
In a vision, or
in none,
Is it therefore
the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream
within a dream.
I stand amid the
roar
Of a
surf-tormented shore,
And I hold
within my hand
Grains of the
golden sand —
How few! yet how
they creep
Through my
fingers to the deep,
While I weep —
while I weep!
O God! Can I not
grasp
Them with a
tighter clasp?
O God! can I not
save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that
we see or seem
But a dream
within a dream?
The Haunted
Palace
In the greenest
of our valleys
By good angels
tenanted,
Once a fair and
stately palace—
Radiant
palace—reared its head.
In the monarch
Thought’s dominion,
It stood
there!
Never seraph
spread a pinion
Over fabric half
so fair!
Banners yellow,
glorious, golden,
On its roof did
float and flow
(This—all
this—was in the olden
Time long
ago)
And every gentle
air that dallied,
In that sweet
day,
Along the
ramparts plumed and pallid,
A wingèd odor
went away.
Wanderers in
that happy valley,
Through two
luminous windows, saw
Spirits moving
musically
To a lute’s
well-tunèd law,
Round about a
throne where, sitting,
Porphyrogene!
In state his
glory well befitting,
The ruler of the
realm was seen.
And all with
pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair
palace door,
Through which
came flowing, flowing, flowing
And sparkling
evermore,
A troop of
Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to
sing,
In voices of
surpassing beauty,
The wit and
wisdom of their king.
But evil things,
in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the
monarch’s high estate;
(Ah, let us
mourn!—for never morrow
Shall dawn upon
him, desolate!)
And round about
his home the glory
That blushed and
bloomed
Is but a
dim-remembered story
Of the old time
entombed.
And travellers,
now, within that valley,
Through the
red-litten windows see
Vast forms that
move fantastically
To a discordant
melody;
While, like a
ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale
door
A hideous throng
rush out forever,
And laugh—but
smile no more.
Fairy-Land
Dim vales—and
shadowy floods—
And
cloudy-looking woods,
Whose forms we
can’t discover
For the tears
that drip all over:
Huge moons there
wax and wane—
Again—again—again—
Every moment of
the night—
Forever changing
places—
And they put out
the star-light
With the breath
from their pale faces.
About twelve by
the moon-dial,
One more filmy
than the rest
(A kind which,
upon trial,
They have found
to be the best)
Comes down—still
down—and down
With its centre
on the crown
Of a mountain’s
eminence,
While its wide
circumference
In easy drapery
falls
Over hamlets,
over halls,
Wherever they
may be—
O’er the strange
woods—o’er the sea—
Over spirits on
the wing—
Over every
drowsy thing—
And buries them
up quite
In a labyrinth
of light—
And then, how,
deep! —O, deep,
Is the passion
of their sleep.
In the morning
they arise,
And their moony
covering
Is soaring in
the skies,
With the
tempests as they toss,
Like—almost any
thing—
Or a yellow
Albatross.
They use that
moon no more
For the same end
as before,
Videlicet, a
tent—
Which I think
extravagant:
Its atomies,
however,
Into a shower
dissever,
Of which those
butterflies
Of Earth, who
seek the skies,
And so come down
again
(Never-contented
things!)
Have brought a
specimen
Upon their
quivering wings.
