I am not an aficionado of poetry. I think there are two kinds: good poetry and the just awful stuff that people constantly want to read to you when they learn that you are a writer. In Norse mythology, there is a story of where the two kinds come from that involves Odin transforming into a giant eagle to steal the mead of poetry from a giant. The giant also turns into an eagle and chases Odin through the skies after the god has gulped down the entirety of the huge amount of mead. Just as they reach Asgard, the giant almost has his beak on Odin’s tail feathers, so Odin cuts loose with, um, well, a bowel movement while delivering the rest of the mead to the other gods via projectile vomiting. So according to the Vikings, good poetry comes from the mouth of a divine eagle, and bad poetry comes from the other end.

In my few attempts at poetry, I have always written the latter. I just don’t have the knack. I think it stems from my musical shortcomings; I can’t carry a tune in a bucket, I’m tone-deaf as a stump, and can barely play the radio. And that’s what poetry is, after all: music on the page. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate good poetry; poems that make me see visions and feel emotions and imagine strange and wonderful things. Good poetry does that. It pierces the layers of cynicism and callouses of indifference, and touches the soul.






For my money, few have ever done that as well as Edgar Allan Poe. I’m sure most of you are familiar with “The Raven” and possibly “Annabel Lee,” but my favorites are “The City in the Sea” and “The Conqueror Worm.” There’s just something about those poems that stirs something primal and powerful within me; that makes me want to do more and be better at my own writing – or whatever else I might be doing. Yes, they are both suitably dark; they were written by Poe after all, and that’s probably why I like them.






From “The City in the Sea”

The hours are breathing faint and low-
And when, amid no earthly moans,
Down, down that town shall settle hence,
Hell, rising from a thousand thrones,
Shall do it reverence.

Talk about your crescendos! And this poem is cited as one of H. P. Lovecraft’s inspirations for his story, “The Call of Cthulhu.” Imagine that, if Poe hadn’t written this poem, there might have never been a Cthulhu, or a Cthulhu Mythos. Now that’s truly scary.

From “The Conqueror Worm”

Out- out are the lights- out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, "Man,"
And its hero the Conqueror Worm.

Powerful, yes; depressing, maybe; but I ask you, is there not truth in this comment on the Human Condition? So this October, which to me has always been the season of Poe, I invite you to check out his poetry as well as his tales. Squeeze in “The Valley of Unrest” and “Spirits of the Dead” between your reading of “The Telltale Heart” and “Fall of the House of Usher.” You’ll discover how gifted Mr. Poe truly was, and you may just find that he has touched your soul from beyond the grave.