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The Raven and Other Poems
Obras más detacadas del autor.
96 pages, Hardcover
First published January 29, 1845
572 people are currently reading
25529 people want to read
About the author
Edgar Allan Poe
9,797 books28.7k followersThe name Poe brings to mind images of murderers and madmen, premature burials, and mysterious women who return from the dead. His works have been in print since 1827 and include such literary classics as The Tell-Tale Heart, The Raven, and The Fall of the House of Usher. This versatile writer’s oeuvre includes short stories, poetry, a novel, a textbook, a book of scientific theory, and hundreds of essays and book reviews. He is widely acknowledged as the inventor of the modern detective story and an innovator in the science fiction genre, but he made his living as America’s first great literary critic and theoretician. Poe’s reputation today rests primarily on his tales of terror as well as on his haunting lyric poetry.
Just as the bizarre characters in Poe’s stories have captured the public imagination so too has Poe himself. He is seen as a morbid, mysterious figure lurking in the shadows of moonlit cemeteries or crumbling castles. This is the Poe of legend. But much of what we know about Poe is wrong, the product of a biography written by one of his enemies in an attempt to defame the author’s name.
The real Poe was born to traveling actors in Boston on January 19, 1809. Edgar was the second of three children. His other brother William Henry Leonard Poe would also become a poet before his early death, and Poe’s sister Rosalie Poe would grow up to teach penmanship at a Richmond girls’ school. Within three years of Poe’s birth both of his parents had died, and he was taken in by the wealthy tobacco merchant John Allan and his wife Frances Valentine Allan in Richmond, Virginia while Poe’s siblings went to live with other families. Mr. Allan would rear Poe to be a businessman and a Virginia gentleman, but Poe had dreams of being a writer in emulation of his childhood hero the British poet Lord Byron. Early poetic verses found written in a young Poe’s handwriting on the backs of Allan’s ledger sheets reveal how little interest Poe had in the tobacco business.
For more information, please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_al...
Just as the bizarre characters in Poe’s stories have captured the public imagination so too has Poe himself. He is seen as a morbid, mysterious figure lurking in the shadows of moonlit cemeteries or crumbling castles. This is the Poe of legend. But much of what we know about Poe is wrong, the product of a biography written by one of his enemies in an attempt to defame the author’s name.
The real Poe was born to traveling actors in Boston on January 19, 1809. Edgar was the second of three children. His other brother William Henry Leonard Poe would also become a poet before his early death, and Poe’s sister Rosalie Poe would grow up to teach penmanship at a Richmond girls’ school. Within three years of Poe’s birth both of his parents had died, and he was taken in by the wealthy tobacco merchant John Allan and his wife Frances Valentine Allan in Richmond, Virginia while Poe’s siblings went to live with other families. Mr. Allan would rear Poe to be a businessman and a Virginia gentleman, but Poe had dreams of being a writer in emulation of his childhood hero the British poet Lord Byron. Early poetic verses found written in a young Poe’s handwriting on the backs of Allan’s ledger sheets reveal how little interest Poe had in the tobacco business.
For more information, please see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Edgar_al...
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 876 reviews
March 15, 2021
A Edgar Allan Poe sólo le pagaron 10 dólares por publicar su poema en el Evening Mirror, pero de pronto se dio cuenta que había tocado el cielo con la manos. Lo invitaban a distintas reuniones de la alta sociedad a recitar de un tirón su famoso poema, lúgubre, melancólico y fatalista. Una obra de arte en la que la aliteración nos lleva, nos mece y nos hechiza.
Esta edición es interesante en dos aspectos: es bilingüe y El Cuervo está ilustrado por el más grande ilustrador del siglo XIX, que fue Gustave Doré, quien también hizo maravillosas ilustraciones de La Biblia, La Divina Comedia, El Paraíso Perdido, La Balada del Viejo Marinero y muchas obras más. Otros poemas incluidos en este libro son en también dignos de disfrutar, como Annabel Lee, Ulalume, Eldorado, Las Campanas, A mi Madre y Solo.
En tan solo 160 páginas, lo mejor del poemario de Poe, quien nos muestra unos de sus costados menos conocidos: el sensible, puesto que así era realmente en su vida real.
Esta edición es interesante en dos aspectos: es bilingüe y El Cuervo está ilustrado por el más grande ilustrador del siglo XIX, que fue Gustave Doré, quien también hizo maravillosas ilustraciones de La Biblia, La Divina Comedia, El Paraíso Perdido, La Balada del Viejo Marinero y muchas obras más. Otros poemas incluidos en este libro son en también dignos de disfrutar, como Annabel Lee, Ulalume, Eldorado, Las Campanas, A mi Madre y Solo.
En tan solo 160 páginas, lo mejor del poemario de Poe, quien nos muestra unos de sus costados menos conocidos: el sensible, puesto que así era realmente en su vida real.
October 31, 2017
Who doesn't love Poe? This one contains some of our favorite poems and I purchased it for my oldest daughter to read from our book club. It contains some of the spookiest poems by Poe including our favorite for this time of year, The Raven, as well as others like The Haunted Palace, Annabel Lee, The Bells, and A Dream Within a Dream. It's a small paperback with a nice collection of Poe's works.
October 5, 2017
The Raven, Annabel Lee; pure genius.
October 27, 2019
Il Poe poeta? Semplicemente sublime.
Una scrittura così delicata, densa di sfumature e rimandi, dove la Natura è parte di tutto e dove i pensieri dell'uomo, in quanto essere vivente che riflette su ciò che lo circonda, fanno da base a queste splendide poesie che hanno in sè solitudine, amore, dolore, morte, vita.
Non ho parole per raccontare cosa mi hanno instillato queste poesie, mi hanno lasciato ammutolito, estasiato da tanta capacità (di Poe) di mettere su carta ciò che lo turba, che lo ammalia, che lo emoziona, l'amore in primis, ma anche l'inquietudine dell'esistenza...
Insomma, bando alle ciance e cedo la parola a lui, Edgar Allan Poe!
La valle dell'inquietudine
Un tempo sorrideva silenziosa
una valle dove nessuno abitava:
la sua gente era partita per le guerre
lasciando al mite sguardo delle stelle,
nella notte, dalle alte torri azzurre,
di custodire la distesa dei fiori
dove per tutto il giorno pigramente
giaceva il rosso splendore del sole.
Adesso gli occhi del viandante vedono
che non c'è pace nella triste valle.
Più nullea laggiù resta immobile,
più nulla o forse l'aria soltanto
che sovrasta la solitudine magica.
Nessun vento sospinge le nuvole
che strisciano nel cielo inquiete
senza riposo, dal mattino alla sera,
sulle viole abbandonate che sembrano
miriadi di forme d'occhi umani
e sui gigli che ondeggiano e piangono
sopra una tomba che non ha nome!
Ondeggiano: dalle cime profumate
cadono gocce di rugiade immortali.
Piangono: dagli steli delicati
scendono come gemme eterne lacrime.
Annabel Lee
Molti e molti anni fa,
in un regno in riva al mare,
viveva una fanciulla che potete chiamare
con il nome di Annabel Lee;
e questa fanciulla non aveva altro pensiero
che d'amarmi ed essere amata da me.
Io ero un bimbo e lei una bimba
in quel regno in riva al mare:
ma ci amavamo d'un amore ch'era più che amore,
io e la mia bella Annabel Lee;
d'un amore che gli alati serafini del cielo
invidiavano a lei e a me.
Fu per questo che, molti e molti anni fa,
in quel regno in riva al mare,
un vento soffiò fuor d'una nube raggelando
la mia bella Annabel Lee.
Allora vennero i suoi nobili parenti
e lontano da me la vollero portare,
per chiuderla dentro un sepolcro
in quel regno in riva al mare.
Gli angeli, meno di noi felici in cielo,
invidiavano lei e me...
Sì! fu per questo (come tutti sanno
in quel regno in riva al mare)
che a notte un vento soffiò fuor d'una nube
raggelando e uccidendo la mia Annabel Lee.
Ma il nostro amore era ben più che l'amore
di tanti molto più vecchi di noi
di tanti molto più saggi di noi...
E nè gli angeli in cielo lassù,
nè i demoni giù nel fondo del mare,
la mia anima dall'anima sua
potranno mai separare.
Poi che mai splende la luna ch'io non sogni
la mia bella Annabel Lee,
nè mai si levano stelle ch'io non veda gli occhi lucenti
della mia bella Annabel Lee;
e così tutta la notte al fianco io giaccio
del mio amore, mio amore, mia vita e mia sposa,
nel suo sepolcro laggiù presso il mare,
nella sua tomba presso la riva del mare.
Una scrittura così delicata, densa di sfumature e rimandi, dove la Natura è parte di tutto e dove i pensieri dell'uomo, in quanto essere vivente che riflette su ciò che lo circonda, fanno da base a queste splendide poesie che hanno in sè solitudine, amore, dolore, morte, vita.
Non ho parole per raccontare cosa mi hanno instillato queste poesie, mi hanno lasciato ammutolito, estasiato da tanta capacità (di Poe) di mettere su carta ciò che lo turba, che lo ammalia, che lo emoziona, l'amore in primis, ma anche l'inquietudine dell'esistenza...
Insomma, bando alle ciance e cedo la parola a lui, Edgar Allan Poe!
La valle dell'inquietudine
Un tempo sorrideva silenziosa
una valle dove nessuno abitava:
la sua gente era partita per le guerre
lasciando al mite sguardo delle stelle,
nella notte, dalle alte torri azzurre,
di custodire la distesa dei fiori
dove per tutto il giorno pigramente
giaceva il rosso splendore del sole.
Adesso gli occhi del viandante vedono
che non c'è pace nella triste valle.
Più nullea laggiù resta immobile,
più nulla o forse l'aria soltanto
che sovrasta la solitudine magica.
Nessun vento sospinge le nuvole
che strisciano nel cielo inquiete
senza riposo, dal mattino alla sera,
sulle viole abbandonate che sembrano
miriadi di forme d'occhi umani
e sui gigli che ondeggiano e piangono
sopra una tomba che non ha nome!
Ondeggiano: dalle cime profumate
cadono gocce di rugiade immortali.
Piangono: dagli steli delicati
scendono come gemme eterne lacrime.
Annabel Lee
Molti e molti anni fa,
in un regno in riva al mare,
viveva una fanciulla che potete chiamare
con il nome di Annabel Lee;
e questa fanciulla non aveva altro pensiero
che d'amarmi ed essere amata da me.
Io ero un bimbo e lei una bimba
in quel regno in riva al mare:
ma ci amavamo d'un amore ch'era più che amore,
io e la mia bella Annabel Lee;
d'un amore che gli alati serafini del cielo
invidiavano a lei e a me.
Fu per questo che, molti e molti anni fa,
in quel regno in riva al mare,
un vento soffiò fuor d'una nube raggelando
la mia bella Annabel Lee.
Allora vennero i suoi nobili parenti
e lontano da me la vollero portare,
per chiuderla dentro un sepolcro
in quel regno in riva al mare.
Gli angeli, meno di noi felici in cielo,
invidiavano lei e me...
Sì! fu per questo (come tutti sanno
in quel regno in riva al mare)
che a notte un vento soffiò fuor d'una nube
raggelando e uccidendo la mia Annabel Lee.
Ma il nostro amore era ben più che l'amore
di tanti molto più vecchi di noi
di tanti molto più saggi di noi...
E nè gli angeli in cielo lassù,
nè i demoni giù nel fondo del mare,
la mia anima dall'anima sua
potranno mai separare.
Poi che mai splende la luna ch'io non sogni
la mia bella Annabel Lee,
nè mai si levano stelle ch'io non veda gli occhi lucenti
della mia bella Annabel Lee;
e così tutta la notte al fianco io giaccio
del mio amore, mio amore, mia vita e mia sposa,
nel suo sepolcro laggiù presso il mare,
nella sua tomba presso la riva del mare.
June 27, 2018
Be nothing which thou art not.
Overview 4/5 stars
I don't read much of any poetry. Apart from poems I've read for school (way back when), this is my first book of poetry I've ever read. I will be reading more poetry from now on as I thoroughly enjoyed this.
Poe is well known for the Raven, which everyone has heard at some point. Even the Simpsons recited it during a tree house of horror episode. His other works are also brilliant. There are, of course, a few misses but for the most part everything is great.
The raven
This is now my favourite poem ever. I'm currently looking on amazon to see if I can get the poem in a frame to put on a wall in my house, it's that good. If you don't check out any of the other poems, you must read the raven.
I’ve read this every night before bed since starting this collection. Very few writers can command language like Poe. Here are some of my favourite lines.
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
I could copy the whole thing as every word is placed brilliantly.
Other favourites
Amongst my favourites were Tamerlane, Alone, Elizabeth, Lenore, The City in the Sea, The Sleeper, The Valley of Unrest and Dreamland.
Most of the poems are gothic in nature and are rather haunting, though beautiful. Here are just some of my favourite bits. First up is a beaut from Dreamland:
By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,—Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,—By the mountains—near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—By the gray woods,—by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,—By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,—By each spot the most unholy—In each nook most melancholy,—There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the past—Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by—White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
Would to God I could awaken For I dream I know not how, And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken,—Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be happy now.
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep; Soft may the worms about her creep!
For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass—No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea—No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”
Read nothing, written less –in short’s a fool
And all I loved—I loved alone
And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one—For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown
Darkness there and nothing more…
Overview 4/5 stars
I don't read much of any poetry. Apart from poems I've read for school (way back when), this is my first book of poetry I've ever read. I will be reading more poetry from now on as I thoroughly enjoyed this.
Poe is well known for the Raven, which everyone has heard at some point. Even the Simpsons recited it during a tree house of horror episode. His other works are also brilliant. There are, of course, a few misses but for the most part everything is great.
The raven
This is now my favourite poem ever. I'm currently looking on amazon to see if I can get the poem in a frame to put on a wall in my house, it's that good. If you don't check out any of the other poems, you must read the raven.
I’ve read this every night before bed since starting this collection. Very few writers can command language like Poe. Here are some of my favourite lines.
But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling, Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
I could copy the whole thing as every word is placed brilliantly.
Other favourites
Amongst my favourites were Tamerlane, Alone, Elizabeth, Lenore, The City in the Sea, The Sleeper, The Valley of Unrest and Dreamland.
Most of the poems are gothic in nature and are rather haunting, though beautiful. Here are just some of my favourite bits. First up is a beaut from Dreamland:
By the lakes that thus outspread Their lone waters, lone and dead,—Their sad waters, sad and chilly With the snows of the lolling lily,—By the mountains—near the river Murmuring lowly, murmuring ever,—By the gray woods,—by the swamp Where the toad and the newt encamp,—By the dismal tarns and pools Where dwell the Ghouls,—By each spot the most unholy—In each nook most melancholy,—There the traveller meets aghast Sheeted Memories of the past—Shrouded forms that start and sigh As they pass the wanderer by—White-robed forms of friends long given, In agony, to the Earth—and Heaven.
Would to God I could awaken For I dream I know not how, And my soul is sorely shaken Lest an evil step be taken,—Lest the dead who is forsaken May not be happy now.
My love, she sleeps! Oh, may her sleep, As it is lasting, so be deep; Soft may the worms about her creep!
For no ripples curl, alas! Along that wilderness of glass—No swellings tell that winds may be Upon some far-off happier sea—No heavings hint that winds have been On seas less hideously serene.
“Wretches! ye loved her for her wealth and hated her for her pride, And when she fell in feeble health, ye blessed her—that she died! How shall the ritual, then, be read?—the requiem how be sung By you—by yours, the evil eye,—by yours, the slanderous tongue That did to death the innocence that died, and died so young?”
Read nothing, written less –in short’s a fool
And all I loved—I loved alone
And boyhood is a summer sun Whose waning is the dreariest one—For all we live to know is known, And all we seek to keep hath flown
Darkness there and nothing more…
November 18, 2024
YUCK! POEMS!
The full poemography by Edgar Allan Poe, grand master of poetical horror, among other things.
Ugh! Disgusting! I hate poetry, so can’t say this is Poe’s fault here.
Ugh! I feel sick. I’m going to keep this short.
★★☆☆☆ "The Raven."
★★☆☆☆ “Annabel Lee.” [1.5]
★☆☆☆☆ “The Conqueror Worm, The Haunted Palace, Eulalie-A Song. Stanzas, Romance, To Helen, Dream-Land, The City in the Sea, The Lake-To, The Sleeper, Eldorado, The Valley of Unrest, Lenore, A Valentine, Ulalume-A Ballad, For Annie.”
☆☆☆☆☆ “Evening Star, To F-, Spirits of the Dead, Dreams, To One in Paradise, To My Mother, To M. L. S-, Israfel, To the River-, Sonnet-To Science, Sonnet-To Zante, The Bells, Fairy-Land, The Coliseum, A Dream within a Dream, Sonnet-Silence, A Dream, Alone, The Happiest Day.”
It’s public domain. You can find it HERE.
-----------------------------------------------
PERSONAL NOTE :
[1845] [73p] [Collection] [Poetry] [Not Recommendable]
-----------------------------------------------
★★★☆☆ The Essential Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe
★★☆☆☆ The Complete Stories and Poems
★★★☆☆ The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Writings
★★★☆☆ The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales
★☆☆☆☆ The Raven and Other Poems
-----------------------------------------------
¡PUAJ! ¡POEMAS!
La completa poemografía por Edgar Allan Poe, gran maestro del horror poético, entre otras cosas.
¡Ugh! ¡Pero qué asco! Odio la poesía, así que no puedo decir que sea la culpa de Poe acá.
¡Ugh! Es enfermizo. Esto va a ser corto.
★★☆☆☆ "El Cuervo."
★★☆☆☆ “Annabel Lee.” [1.5]
★☆☆☆☆ “El Gusano Conquistador, El Palacio Embrujado, Eulalie-Canción, Stanzas, Romance, Para Helen, País de los Sueños, La Ciudad en el Mar, El Lago- Hasta, El Durmiente, Eldorado, El Valle del Malestar, Lenore, Valentine, Ulalume- Una Balada, Para Annie, El Día más Feliz.”
☆☆☆☆☆ “Estrella de la Tarde, Para F, Espíritus de los Muertos, Sueños, A Uno en el Paraíso, Para mi Madre, A M.L.S, Israfel, Al Rio, Soneto- A la Ciencia, Soneto-A Zante, Las Campanas, El País de las Hadas, El Coliseo, Un Sueño Dentro de un Sueño, Soneto- Silencio, Un Sueño, Solo.”
Es dominio público, lo pueden encontrar ACA.
-----------------------------------------------
NOTA PERSONAL :
[1845] [73p] [Colección] [Poesía] [No Recomendable]
-----------------------------------------------
The full poemography by Edgar Allan Poe, grand master of poetical horror, among other things.
Ugh! Disgusting! I hate poetry, so can’t say this is Poe’s fault here.
Ugh! I feel sick. I’m going to keep this short.
★★☆☆☆ "The Raven."
★★☆☆☆ “Annabel Lee.” [1.5]
★☆☆☆☆ “The Conqueror Worm, The Haunted Palace, Eulalie-A Song. Stanzas, Romance, To Helen, Dream-Land, The City in the Sea, The Lake-To, The Sleeper, Eldorado, The Valley of Unrest, Lenore, A Valentine, Ulalume-A Ballad, For Annie.”
☆☆☆☆☆ “Evening Star, To F-, Spirits of the Dead, Dreams, To One in Paradise, To My Mother, To M. L. S-, Israfel, To the River-, Sonnet-To Science, Sonnet-To Zante, The Bells, Fairy-Land, The Coliseum, A Dream within a Dream, Sonnet-Silence, A Dream, Alone, The Happiest Day.”
It’s public domain. You can find it HERE.
-----------------------------------------------
PERSONAL NOTE :
[1845] [73p] [Collection] [Poetry] [Not Recommendable]
-----------------------------------------------
★★★☆☆ The Essential Tales and Poems of Edgar Allan Poe
★★☆☆☆ The Complete Stories and Poems
★★★☆☆ The Tell-Tale Heart and Other Writings
★★★☆☆ The Fall of the House of Usher and Other Tales
★☆☆☆☆ The Raven and Other Poems
-----------------------------------------------
¡PUAJ! ¡POEMAS!
La completa poemografía por Edgar Allan Poe, gran maestro del horror poético, entre otras cosas.
¡Ugh! ¡Pero qué asco! Odio la poesía, así que no puedo decir que sea la culpa de Poe acá.
¡Ugh! Es enfermizo. Esto va a ser corto.
★★☆☆☆ "El Cuervo."
★★☆☆☆ “Annabel Lee.” [1.5]
★☆☆☆☆ “El Gusano Conquistador, El Palacio Embrujado, Eulalie-Canción, Stanzas, Romance, Para Helen, País de los Sueños, La Ciudad en el Mar, El Lago- Hasta, El Durmiente, Eldorado, El Valle del Malestar, Lenore, Valentine, Ulalume- Una Balada, Para Annie, El Día más Feliz.”
☆☆☆☆☆ “Estrella de la Tarde, Para F, Espíritus de los Muertos, Sueños, A Uno en el Paraíso, Para mi Madre, A M.L.S, Israfel, Al Rio, Soneto- A la Ciencia, Soneto-A Zante, Las Campanas, El País de las Hadas, El Coliseo, Un Sueño Dentro de un Sueño, Soneto- Silencio, Un Sueño, Solo.”
Es dominio público, lo pueden encontrar ACA.
-----------------------------------------------
NOTA PERSONAL :
[1845] [73p] [Colección] [Poesía] [No Recomendable]
-----------------------------------------------
September 6, 2021
"All that we see or seem is but a dream within a dream."
Lush use of language and wonderful atmospheres! I really enjoyed reading this one.
Lush use of language and wonderful atmospheres! I really enjoyed reading this one.
March 17, 2025
leer a Poe se siente como caer en la más baja depravación como también ser una lectora pequeña para vez; leí unos cuantos de estos relatos por primera vez con 14 años y teniendo 21 definitivamente pegan mucho más fuerte y porqué no, también con mucho más miedo.
leer la degradación gradual del ser humano es un caldo que solo puede ser digerido lentamente; con una pluma prodigiosa y absolutamente aterradora, Poe lleva de la mano al lector por los caminos más sombríos y reales desde la perspectiva más confusa y sobre todo, inesperada.
me encantó; tomé este libro de relatos cortos por las risas gracias a que en la carrera esta semana hablamos sobre la obra de Poe desgranándola parte por parte y a través de su vida; leer estos relatos a la vez que los analizaba lo hizo sentir como una obra completa (a pesar de que, evidentemente, no lo es).
sencillamente lo fue todo y no podría recomendarlo más a los acérrimos fanáticos del terror si, por lo que se, todavía no se animan con Poe; esta es su señal para que lo hagan ahora mismo.
leer la degradación gradual del ser humano es un caldo que solo puede ser digerido lentamente; con una pluma prodigiosa y absolutamente aterradora, Poe lleva de la mano al lector por los caminos más sombríos y reales desde la perspectiva más confusa y sobre todo, inesperada.
me encantó; tomé este libro de relatos cortos por las risas gracias a que en la carrera esta semana hablamos sobre la obra de Poe desgranándola parte por parte y a través de su vida; leer estos relatos a la vez que los analizaba lo hizo sentir como una obra completa (a pesar de que, evidentemente, no lo es).
sencillamente lo fue todo y no podría recomendarlo más a los acérrimos fanáticos del terror si, por lo que se, todavía no se animan con Poe; esta es su señal para que lo hagan ahora mismo.
May 13, 2023
I've just read this all at once and the hypnotic obscurity of Poe's writing took my breath away. I found myself highlighting, dog-earing and loudly reciting nearly every page of this awesome little book, and I hope I'll be able to concatenate my tangled thoughts into something that resembles an actual review sometime. Poe is the ultimate gothic demon and I couldn't be more enamored with his majestically dark poetry. I wish I could be the raven, someone to give him the comfort of a loyal company amidst the hollowness of his madness.
November 3, 2017
Not wild about poetry, not wild about horror but I love, love love these poems. I'm becoming a big Edgar Allan Poe fan completely by accident.
May 8, 2022
Nevermore...Nevermore...Nevermore
Selezione di 20 poesie che, per quanto ho potuto vedere, rappresentano il meglio della produzione di Poe. Fuori della raccolta ho letto Peana, Il castello incantato, Le campane, Fantasticheria, Terra di sogno, Un sogno dentro a un sogno, A mia madre.
Nei racconti Poe ha costruito i suoi mondi e le sue atmosfere gotiche, scavando nelle nostre paure e angosce. Nelle poesie li ritroviamo ma, complice il diverso mezzo, troviamo anche un Poe più intimo e delicato.
I componimenti sono di breve lunghezza, per creare quell'unità di effetto che si perderebbe su testi più lunghi, come ci spiega lo stesso EAP nella sua Filosofia della composizione, presente in appendice, dove assistiamo, spiegata passo a passo, alla costruzione della sua poesia più nota, ovvero Il Corvo.
In «Solo» c'è l'EAP geniale outsider, conscio di esserlo, che vivrà per questo una vità breve e grama
Fin da bambino, io non sono stato
uguale agli altri; non ho mai guardato
il mondo come gli altri; le passioni
da una fonte comune non ho tratto.
Dalla stessa sorgente non ho attinto
il mio dolore; né ho accordato il cuore
alla gioia di chi mi stava accanto.
Ciò che io ho amato, l’ho amato da solo.
Ne «La Città del mare» ritroviamo i mondi cupi di EAD
Guarda: la Morte si è innalzata un trono
in una città strana e solitaria
laggiù, nell’Occidente tenebroso,
dove buoni e cattivi, ottimi e pessimi
sono andati al loro eterno riposo.
I templi ed i palazzi, lì, e le torri
(corrose ormai dal tempo, ma non tremano!)
non somigliano a niente che sia nostro.
E tutt’intorno acque malinconiche
giacciono rassegnate sotto il cielo
dimenticate perfino dai venti.
Ne «Il verme conquistatore» si mette in scena lo spettacolo della vita, delle passioni e dei desideri, infine spazzati via dalla morte conquistatrice
Notte di gala, guarda!,
in questi solitari ultimi anni!
Una gran folla d’angeli, alati,
adorni di bei veli e sciolti in pianto,
siede in teatro e assiste
a un dramma di speranze e di paure,
mentre l’orchestra a intervalli sussurra
musica delle sfere.
E poi ci si strugge per le morte donne di EAP, morte come le sue due madri (naturale e adottiva) e la sua amata sposa bambina Virginia,
come «Ulalume»
I cieli erano cenere e tristezza;
le foglie erano tutte crespe e secche –
le foglie erano tutte vizze e secche;
ed era notte nel deserto ottobre
di un anno che vorrei dimenticare;
e fu vicino al nero lago di Auber
in mezzo alle foschie del medio Weir,
e fu laggiù, presso lo stagno di Auber,
nei boschi del Weir, dimora di mostri.
e chiaramente come la Lenore de «Il Corvo», con il suo ipnotico "mai più"
“Tu, profeta dell’inferno!” dissi. “Tu, demonio o uccello!
Per il cielo su di noi – per il Dio a cui ci inchiniamo –
di’ a quest’anima infelice se qui o nel lontano Eden
stringerà la donna sacra che per gli angeli è Lenore –
sì, quell’unica, radiosa, che per gli angeli è Lenore.”
Disse il Corvo: “Mai più”.
Edouart Manet, Il corvo, illustrazione per una traduzione francese della piú conosciuta poesia di Poe
Selezione di 20 poesie che, per quanto ho potuto vedere, rappresentano il meglio della produzione di Poe. Fuori della raccolta ho letto Peana, Il castello incantato, Le campane, Fantasticheria, Terra di sogno, Un sogno dentro a un sogno, A mia madre.
Nei racconti Poe ha costruito i suoi mondi e le sue atmosfere gotiche, scavando nelle nostre paure e angosce. Nelle poesie li ritroviamo ma, complice il diverso mezzo, troviamo anche un Poe più intimo e delicato.
I componimenti sono di breve lunghezza, per creare quell'unità di effetto che si perderebbe su testi più lunghi, come ci spiega lo stesso EAP nella sua Filosofia della composizione, presente in appendice, dove assistiamo, spiegata passo a passo, alla costruzione della sua poesia più nota, ovvero Il Corvo.
***
In «Solo» c'è l'EAP geniale outsider, conscio di esserlo, che vivrà per questo una vità breve e grama
Fin da bambino, io non sono stato
uguale agli altri; non ho mai guardato
il mondo come gli altri; le passioni
da una fonte comune non ho tratto.
Dalla stessa sorgente non ho attinto
il mio dolore; né ho accordato il cuore
alla gioia di chi mi stava accanto.
Ciò che io ho amato, l’ho amato da solo.
Ne «La Città del mare» ritroviamo i mondi cupi di EAD
Guarda: la Morte si è innalzata un trono
in una città strana e solitaria
laggiù, nell’Occidente tenebroso,
dove buoni e cattivi, ottimi e pessimi
sono andati al loro eterno riposo.
I templi ed i palazzi, lì, e le torri
(corrose ormai dal tempo, ma non tremano!)
non somigliano a niente che sia nostro.
E tutt’intorno acque malinconiche
giacciono rassegnate sotto il cielo
dimenticate perfino dai venti.
Ne «Il verme conquistatore» si mette in scena lo spettacolo della vita, delle passioni e dei desideri, infine spazzati via dalla morte conquistatrice
Notte di gala, guarda!,
in questi solitari ultimi anni!
Una gran folla d’angeli, alati,
adorni di bei veli e sciolti in pianto,
siede in teatro e assiste
a un dramma di speranze e di paure,
mentre l’orchestra a intervalli sussurra
musica delle sfere.
E poi ci si strugge per le morte donne di EAP, morte come le sue due madri (naturale e adottiva) e la sua amata sposa bambina Virginia,
come «Ulalume»
I cieli erano cenere e tristezza;
le foglie erano tutte crespe e secche –
le foglie erano tutte vizze e secche;
ed era notte nel deserto ottobre
di un anno che vorrei dimenticare;
e fu vicino al nero lago di Auber
in mezzo alle foschie del medio Weir,
e fu laggiù, presso lo stagno di Auber,
nei boschi del Weir, dimora di mostri.
e chiaramente come la Lenore de «Il Corvo», con il suo ipnotico "mai più"
“Tu, profeta dell’inferno!” dissi. “Tu, demonio o uccello!
Per il cielo su di noi – per il Dio a cui ci inchiniamo –
di’ a quest’anima infelice se qui o nel lontano Eden
stringerà la donna sacra che per gli angeli è Lenore –
sì, quell’unica, radiosa, che per gli angeli è Lenore.”
Disse il Corvo: “Mai più”.
February 28, 2023
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one—
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown—
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty— which is all.
Whose waning is the dreariest one—
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown—
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty— which is all.
October 13, 2024
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—
I don’t normally read books of poetry, but I needed to read one with at least 24 poems for a book challenge. So, inspired by the Halloween season, I read this book of poems, which very fortunately has 26 poems. 😄
Much of Poe’s poetry is about the loss of a beloved woman, or death, or the loss of a beloved woman to death. His poems have a strong focus on sound, rhyme, and rhythm. There are several here that I don’t remember ever reading that I quite enjoyed: “Alone,” “The Conqueror Worm,” “The Bells,” “A Dream Within a Dream,” and “For Annie.” And perhaps no poem sums up Poe more simply than his couplet “Deep in Earth,” which reads in its entirety:
Deep in earth my love is lying
And I must weep alone.
But it turns out the two poems you remember from grade school—“Annabel Lee” and “The Raven”—are Poe’s best poems, and pretty fully sum up the themes of his poetry. Recommended, especially “The Raven,” which is still one of the greatest poems ever written.
Read
December 28, 2021[ISBN:978-989-8382-07-8
FolioExemplar editora]
"O Belo é o único domínio legítimo da poesia"
Edgar Allan Poe
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 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!
E o corvo, na noite infinda, está ainda, está ainda No alvo busto de Atena que há por sobre os meus umbrais.
Seu olhar tem a medonha cor de um demónio que sonha,
E a luz lança-lhe a tristonha sombra no chão há mais e
[mais,
E a minh'alma d'essa sombra, que no chão há mais e
[mais
Libertar-se-á... nunca mais!
(F. Pessoa)
E o corvo aí fica; ei-lo trepado
No branco mármore lavrado
Da antiga Palas; ei-lo imutável, ferrenho.
Parece, ao ver-lhe o duro cenho,
Um demônio sonhando. A luz caída
Do lampião sobre a ave aborrecida
No chão espraia a triste sombra; e, fora
Daquelas linhas funerais
Que flutuam no chão, a minha alma que chora
Não sai mais, nunca, nunca mais!
(M. Assis)
O interesse do presente livro reside todo ele numa comparação estética das traduções elaboradas por Fernando Pessoa e Machado de Assis.
E se do primeiro podemos dizer que prima pela exatidão e rigor do trabalho, do segundo podemos dizer que bate o anterior aos pontos pela força emotiva e o encanto da linguagem adotada.
No entanto, a elaboração do volume peca pela adição de um outro escrito pela mão do autor, intitulado A Filosofia da Composição que, procurando explicar os processos criativos de Poe na elaboração do poema O Corvo no-lo apresenta (fragmentado como o autor escolheu) em ainda outra tradução, desta vez por João da Costa. O documento não perde o seu valor claro, mas por esta altura já contamos com três traduções dispares de um mesmo poema e esta análise crítica de autor ao seu próprio trabalho fica assim algo solta no meio de tudo isto.
Veja-se a estância anterior como apresentada neste ensaio:
E o corbeau, não se mexendo, continua empoleirado,
[continua empoleirado
Sobre o busto pálido de Palas, mesmo por cima
[da porta do meu quarto,
E os seus olhos assemelham-se aos dum demónio
[pensativo,
E a luz frouxa do candeeiro, que flui, projecta a sua
[sombra no chão
E a minha alma, para longe desta sombra flutuante
[que jaz por terra
Não se evadirá nunca mais!
(João da Costa)
Ainda assim, as reflexões de Poe são extraordinárias:
"Aquilo a que chamamos um poema comprido não passa, na realidade duma sucessão de poemas curtos, isto é, de efeitos poéticos breves. Inútil se torna dizer que um poema só é um poema enquanto eleva a alma e lhe proporciona uma excitação intensa; e, por uma necessidade psíquica, todas as excitações intensas são de curta duração."
29
"O prazer apenas é extraído da sensação de identidade, de repetição."
32
Os pontos altos do livro, contudo, são certamente os dois poemas escolhidos para o encerrar, Annabel Lee e Ulalume, em versões assinadas por Fernando Pessoa e já tão nossos conhecidos - pelas imensas alusões e declamações que sofrem na cultura televisiva/cinematográfica - como se fizessem parte de um guião de leitura obrigatório.
Annabel Lee
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Porque os luares tristonhos só me trazem sonhos
Da linda que eu soube amar;
E as estrelas nos ares só me lembram olhares
Da linda que eu soube amar;
E assim 'stou deitado toda a noite ao lado
Do meu anjo, meu anjo, meu sonho e meu fado,
No sepulcro ao pé do mar,
Ao pé do murmúrio do mar.
FolioExemplar editora]
"O Belo é o único domínio legítimo da poesia"
Edgar Allan Poe
And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is 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!
E o corvo, na noite infinda, está ainda, está ainda No alvo busto de Atena que há por sobre os meus umbrais.
Seu olhar tem a medonha cor de um demónio que sonha,
E a luz lança-lhe a tristonha sombra no chão há mais e
[mais,
E a minh'alma d'essa sombra, que no chão há mais e
[mais
Libertar-se-á... nunca mais!
(F. Pessoa)
E o corvo aí fica; ei-lo trepado
No branco mármore lavrado
Da antiga Palas; ei-lo imutável, ferrenho.
Parece, ao ver-lhe o duro cenho,
Um demônio sonhando. A luz caída
Do lampião sobre a ave aborrecida
No chão espraia a triste sombra; e, fora
Daquelas linhas funerais
Que flutuam no chão, a minha alma que chora
Não sai mais, nunca, nunca mais!
(M. Assis)
O interesse do presente livro reside todo ele numa comparação estética das traduções elaboradas por Fernando Pessoa e Machado de Assis.
E se do primeiro podemos dizer que prima pela exatidão e rigor do trabalho, do segundo podemos dizer que bate o anterior aos pontos pela força emotiva e o encanto da linguagem adotada.
No entanto, a elaboração do volume peca pela adição de um outro escrito pela mão do autor, intitulado A Filosofia da Composição que, procurando explicar os processos criativos de Poe na elaboração do poema O Corvo no-lo apresenta (fragmentado como o autor escolheu) em ainda outra tradução, desta vez por João da Costa. O documento não perde o seu valor claro, mas por esta altura já contamos com três traduções dispares de um mesmo poema e esta análise crítica de autor ao seu próprio trabalho fica assim algo solta no meio de tudo isto.
Veja-se a estância anterior como apresentada neste ensaio:
E o corbeau, não se mexendo, continua empoleirado,
[continua empoleirado
Sobre o busto pálido de Palas, mesmo por cima
[da porta do meu quarto,
E os seus olhos assemelham-se aos dum demónio
[pensativo,
E a luz frouxa do candeeiro, que flui, projecta a sua
[sombra no chão
E a minha alma, para longe desta sombra flutuante
[que jaz por terra
Não se evadirá nunca mais!
(João da Costa)
Ainda assim, as reflexões de Poe são extraordinárias:
"Aquilo a que chamamos um poema comprido não passa, na realidade duma sucessão de poemas curtos, isto é, de efeitos poéticos breves. Inútil se torna dizer que um poema só é um poema enquanto eleva a alma e lhe proporciona uma excitação intensa; e, por uma necessidade psíquica, todas as excitações intensas são de curta duração."
29
"O prazer apenas é extraído da sensação de identidade, de repetição."
32
Os pontos altos do livro, contudo, são certamente os dois poemas escolhidos para o encerrar, Annabel Lee e Ulalume, em versões assinadas por Fernando Pessoa e já tão nossos conhecidos - pelas imensas alusões e declamações que sofrem na cultura televisiva/cinematográfica - como se fizessem parte de um guião de leitura obrigatório.
Annabel Lee
For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:
And the stars never rise but I feel the bright eyes
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;
And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the side
Of my darling - my darling - my life and my bride,
In the sepulchre there by the sea,
In her tomb by the sounding sea.
Porque os luares tristonhos só me trazem sonhos
Da linda que eu soube amar;
E as estrelas nos ares só me lembram olhares
Da linda que eu soube amar;
E assim 'stou deitado toda a noite ao lado
Do meu anjo, meu anjo, meu sonho e meu fado,
No sepulcro ao pé do mar,
Ao pé do murmúrio do mar.
Read
May 12, 2020it is my first but not my last
complete read of this dramatic bulbous compilation.
Please, there is a dreamland, some godly empowered water and a wickedly sarcastic raven
complete read of this dramatic bulbous compilation.
Please, there is a dreamland, some godly empowered water and a wickedly sarcastic raven
May 30, 2021
Esto fue una experiencia maravillosa. El leer los poemas en inglés y luego releerlos en español fue una experiencia única, además que cuando los leía en inglés los iba escuchando en youtube (se encuentran desde varios videos fanmade muy lindos hasta audiolibros narrados por Basil Rathbone y Vincent Price). La traducción de esta edición es buenísima, highly recommend esta edición de Losada *chef's kiss*.
Mis poemas favoritos fueron: (algunos ya lo eran pero no los tenía en físico así que aproveché para rAYARLOS TODOOS)
- The Raven
- Bridal Ballad
- The Sleeper
- The Conqueror Worm
- Alone
- A Dream Within a Dream
- The Bells
- Annabel Lee
- Spirits of the Dead
Mis poemas favoritos fueron: (algunos ya lo eran pero no los tenía en físico así que aproveché para rAYARLOS TODOOS)
- The Raven
- Bridal Ballad
- The Sleeper
- The Conqueror Worm
- Alone
- A Dream Within a Dream
- The Bells
- Annabel Lee
- Spirits of the Dead
February 1, 2019
I'm not a fan of poetry but since I'm to exhausted to read fantasy now a days I tried to read this one. In this book it's too hard to read unless otherwise you sit and reread the phrases in order to understand what you are reading.
Anyway, life is too hard to contemplate. There will always be sorrow and lost. Things will always mystify us in the future. Poems are mysteries of life that sometimes are hard to phantom.
Anyway, life is too hard to contemplate. There will always be sorrow and lost. Things will always mystify us in the future. Poems are mysteries of life that sometimes are hard to phantom.
June 1, 2015
Some poems are really hard for me to understand unless I sit down, reread the lines twice and think hard. Though there are some that are beautifully haunting and sad. My favourite poems by him are the ones about his lost loves, those are the ones I delved into and got lost in. For one thing, Poe sure had an uncanny ability to depict pain and suffering. Hell, it seem to seep through the pages. It's obvious this man wrote with passion and feeling.
March 22, 2020
Solo
Fin da bambino, io non sono stato
uguale agli altri; non ho mai guardato
il mondo come gli altri; le passioni
da una fonte comune non ho tratto.
Dalla stessa sorgente non ho attinto
il mio dolore; né ho accordato il cuore
alla gioia di chi mi stava accanto.
Ciò che io ho amato, l'ho amato da solo.
Allora - nei miei primi anni, nell'alba
delle burrasche di una vita - è sorto
dai grandi abissi del bene e del male
questo mistero che ancora mi avvince:
sempre, dalla fontana o dal torrente,
da quella rossa rupe in cima a un monte,
dal sole che girava intorno a me
nel suo bagliore dorato d'autunno,
dal lampo che scoccava in mezzo al cielo
sfiorandomi nel suo rapido volo,
dalla tempesta e dal rombo del tuono,
e dalla nube che prendeva forma
(mentre il resto del Cielo era sereno):
la sagoma di un demone al mio sguardo.
Nelle poesie di Poe si riflettono i pensieri di un uomo eternamente malinconico. Leggendo i suoi versi affiorano immagini ricche di inquietudine, dove i temi dominanti sono la morte, la solitudine, la caducità delle cose. Sono dunque componimenti tristi e a volte anche angoscianti, che regalano visioni potenti e indimenticabili.
Fin da bambino, io non sono stato
uguale agli altri; non ho mai guardato
il mondo come gli altri; le passioni
da una fonte comune non ho tratto.
Dalla stessa sorgente non ho attinto
il mio dolore; né ho accordato il cuore
alla gioia di chi mi stava accanto.
Ciò che io ho amato, l'ho amato da solo.
Allora - nei miei primi anni, nell'alba
delle burrasche di una vita - è sorto
dai grandi abissi del bene e del male
questo mistero che ancora mi avvince:
sempre, dalla fontana o dal torrente,
da quella rossa rupe in cima a un monte,
dal sole che girava intorno a me
nel suo bagliore dorato d'autunno,
dal lampo che scoccava in mezzo al cielo
sfiorandomi nel suo rapido volo,
dalla tempesta e dal rombo del tuono,
e dalla nube che prendeva forma
(mentre il resto del Cielo era sereno):
la sagoma di un demone al mio sguardo.
Nelle poesie di Poe si riflettono i pensieri di un uomo eternamente malinconico. Leggendo i suoi versi affiorano immagini ricche di inquietudine, dove i temi dominanti sono la morte, la solitudine, la caducità delle cose. Sono dunque componimenti tristi e a volte anche angoscianti, che regalano visioni potenti e indimenticabili.
May 1, 2018
"Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!
Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.' "
These poems...where something else.
I really really loved 'The Raven', which is the first poem in this collection. It was incredibly weird and abstract and I really enjoyed making notes on it and studying the writing of it.
One other poem I found really creative and interesting was 'Epigram For Wall Street. Something about it just spoke to me and made me laugh, so loved that one also.
But unfortunately the others fell a little flat for me. I am, without a doubt, certain that they are great poems and I am sure if I really sit down and focus and study them, I will be able to appreciate them alot more.
I found myself just skipping some of the poems and kind of drifting away while reading them. So maybe I'll re-vist this collection at some point, but not any time soon.
Quoth the raven, 'Nevermore.' "
These poems...where something else.
I really really loved 'The Raven', which is the first poem in this collection. It was incredibly weird and abstract and I really enjoyed making notes on it and studying the writing of it.
One other poem I found really creative and interesting was 'Epigram For Wall Street. Something about it just spoke to me and made me laugh, so loved that one also.
But unfortunately the others fell a little flat for me. I am, without a doubt, certain that they are great poems and I am sure if I really sit down and focus and study them, I will be able to appreciate them alot more.
I found myself just skipping some of the poems and kind of drifting away while reading them. So maybe I'll re-vist this collection at some point, but not any time soon.
August 21, 2013
Edgar Allan Poe je moje srdcovka v každé podobě. tyhle básničky jsem četla asi už po desáté a ještě mě neomrzely.
February 1, 2019
یکی از دلایلی که آثار ادگار آلنپو (چه شعر و چه داستان کوتاه) رو برام جذاب میکنه فضاسازی خاص و بکرشه. فضاسازی هوشنمندانهای که به خوبی میتونه مخاطب رو همراه کنه و همذاتپنداری ایجاد کنه. سایهی مرگ، ترس، احساس گناه، پوچی و ملال تقریباً تو تمام شعرها دیده میشه. چیزی که برای من خیلی جذاب بود آشنایی ادگار آلنپو با ادیان شرقی بود که بعضاً نمود بارزی داشتن تو شعرهاش. بسیاری از شعرها مثل کلاغ سیر روایی داشتند که برام خیلی جذابیت ایجاد میکرد. اما جا داره بگم که ترجمهی مترجم و پیشگفتاری که نوشت واقعاً تعریفی نبود. ترجمه واقعاً نیاز به ویرایش داره و یهجاهایی احساس میکنی خود مترجم هم ممکنه متوجهی مفهوم چیزی که ترجمه کرده، نشه. در پیشگفتاری هم که نوشت خیلی سعی داشت که تکتک شعرهای ادگار آلنپو رو به یه قضیه در زندگی واقعیش مربوط کنه که بعضی اوقات ربط خاصی وجود نداشته انصافاً. نمیدونم چه اصراریه. :))
March 27, 2020
"And neither the angels in Heaven above
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
When it comes to poetry, I haven't read anything so profound, filled with raw emotions and macabre, bizarre imagery in a long time. At his peak creative genius, Edgar Allan Poe, using poetry, managed to convey a vast array of human emotions, starting with love, despair, depression, etc. marked with a deep sense of beauty. Probably his most famous pieces of poetry, "Annabel Lee" and "The Raven" are prime examples of aforementioned feelings. His love poems are always about lost love, that died, passed away, and by Fate wasn't meant to be. Anyone who knows what he had went through in his personal life would understand where all those feelings came from. All in all, Poe's poetry will always stand as a monument to his genius.
Nor the demons down under the sea
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
Of the beautiful Annabel Lee."
When it comes to poetry, I haven't read anything so profound, filled with raw emotions and macabre, bizarre imagery in a long time. At his peak creative genius, Edgar Allan Poe, using poetry, managed to convey a vast array of human emotions, starting with love, despair, depression, etc. marked with a deep sense of beauty. Probably his most famous pieces of poetry, "Annabel Lee" and "The Raven" are prime examples of aforementioned feelings. His love poems are always about lost love, that died, passed away, and by Fate wasn't meant to be. Anyone who knows what he had went through in his personal life would understand where all those feelings came from. All in all, Poe's poetry will always stand as a monument to his genius.
October 7, 2017
I haven’t read many collections of poetry, or single poems for that matter. It is not something I gravitate to in my normal course of reading. I just don’t know how to embrace poetry. Maybe it was a poor high school education that contributed to my utter lack of understanding things like meter, rhythm, iambic pentameter, and all that goes into creating a poem. For me enjoying a poem has always been an impulse or gut reaction, either the poem is instantly OK or it’s not. The memorability of a poem is even more difficult for me. Granted I have read very little poetry and a lot of it has been enjoyable, but until this books “Annabel Lee” I can only call up two poems that are locked in my memory. While the poem was memorable, I had to look up the titles for this post. Both were written by Robert Frost, one called “Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening.” The other is called “The Road not Taken.” I won’t pretend that I remember these poems word for word but parts of them have and will stick with me forever.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
I have read all the poems of "The Raven and Other Poems" at least once, and a few poems I have read several times. I have also looked up and listened to audio versions of all the poems. I read this book because it is a group read and discussion next month, at that time I plan to read them all again.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The angels, not half so happy in heaven,
Went envying her and me--
Yes!--that was the reason (as all men know,
In this kingdom by the sea)
That the wind came out of the cloud by night,
Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
I have read all the poems of "The Raven and Other Poems" at least once, and a few poems I have read several times. I have also looked up and listened to audio versions of all the poems. I read this book because it is a group read and discussion next month, at that time I plan to read them all again.
May 6, 2024
poe's writing is so incredible, both his poems and his short stories. i loved so many poems in this collection, but i'll always have a special place in my heart for "the raven" ♡
December 30, 2024
I hope everyone is proud!! Only liked 3 of these poems but it’s getting 4 stars anyway. Goal is to read an actual book in 2025
June 30, 2023
Favourite lines
(This isn't going to be short..)
A Dream
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
A Dream Within a Dream
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?
"In Youth I Have Known One"
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light such for his spirit was fit—
And yet that spirit knew—not in the hour
Of its own fervor—what had o'er it power.
(...)
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
Spirits of the Dead
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
"The Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour"
Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been—
But let them pass.
And pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev'n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me—
Be still my spirit!
(...)
For on its wing was dark alloy
And as it fluttered—fell
An essence—powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
Al Aaraaf
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—
Sweet was that error—even with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy—
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy—
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life—
Beyond that death no immortality—
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"!—
And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—
Apart from Heaven's Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!
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—
To ——
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:—
The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lills upon the wave;
(...)
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
To Frances S. Osgood
Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love—a simple duty.
Sonnet — Silence
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, envinced in solid and shade.
There is twofold Silence—sea and shore—
Body and soul.
A Valentine
This is the one that's a riddle, and has a name hidden in it
To Helen
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight --
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me -- O Heaven! O God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words! --
Save only thee and me. I paused, I looked,
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All, all expired save thee -- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes,
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes:
I saw but them -- they were the world to me:
I saw but them, saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres;
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope;
How silently serene a sea of pride;
How daring an ambition; yet how deep,
How fathomless a capacity for love!
The Bells
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
(...)
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
(This isn't going to be short..)
A Dream
In visions of the dark night
I have dreamed of joy departed—
But a waking dream of life and light
Hath left me broken-hearted
Ah! what is not a dream by day
To him whose eyes are cast
On things around him with a ray
Turned back upon the past?
A Dream Within a Dream
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?
"In Youth I Have Known One"
Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
A passionate light such for his spirit was fit—
And yet that spirit knew—not in the hour
Of its own fervor—what had o'er it power.
(...)
Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.
Spirits of the Dead
Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.
"The Happiest Day, the Happiest Hour"
Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween
But they have vanished long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been—
But let them pass.
And pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may ev'n inherit
The venom thou hast poured on me—
Be still my spirit!
(...)
For on its wing was dark alloy
And as it fluttered—fell
An essence—powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.
Al Aaraaf
O Death! from eye of God upon that star:
Sweet was that error—sweeter still that death—
Sweet was that error—even with us the breath
Of Science dims the mirror of our joy—
To them 'twere the Simoom, and would destroy—
For what (to them) availeth it to know
That Truth is Falsehood—or that Bliss is Woe?
Sweet was their death—with them to die was rife
With the last ecstasy of satiate life—
Beyond that death no immortality—
But sleep that pondereth and is not "to be"!—
And there—oh! may my weary spirit dwell—
Apart from Heaven's Eternity—and yet how far from Hell!
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—
To ——
That years of love have been forgot
In the hatred of a minute:—
The Sleeper
At midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon.
An opiate vapor, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lills upon the wave;
(...)
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
To Frances S. Osgood
Thou wouldst be loved?—then let thy heart
From its present pathway part not!
Being everything which now thou art,
Be nothing which thou art not.
So with the world thy gentle ways,
Thy grace, thy more than beauty,
Shall be an endless theme of praise,
And love—a simple duty.
Sonnet — Silence
There are some qualities—some incorporate things,
That have a double life, which thus is made
A type of that twin entity which springs
From matter and light, envinced in solid and shade.
There is twofold Silence—sea and shore—
Body and soul.
A Valentine
This is the one that's a riddle, and has a name hidden in it
To Helen
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight --
Was it not Fate (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade me pause before that garden-gate
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses?
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me -- O Heaven! O God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words! --
Save only thee and me. I paused, I looked,
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly lustre of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses' odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All, all expired save thee -- save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes,
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes:
I saw but them -- they were the world to me:
I saw but them, saw only them for hours,
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-histories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres;
How dark a woe, yet how sublime a hope;
How silently serene a sea of pride;
How daring an ambition; yet how deep,
How fathomless a capacity for love!
The Bells
Hear the tolling of the bells—
Iron bells!
What a world of solemn thought their monody compels!
In the silence of the night,
How we shiver with affright
At the melancholy menace of their tone!
For every sound that floats
From the rust within their throats
Is a groan.
(...)
To the throbbing of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the sobbing of the bells;
Keeping time, time, time,
As he knells, knells, knells,
In a happy Runic rhyme,
To the rolling of the bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells—
To the tolling of the bells,
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells—
Bells, bells, bells—
To the moaning and the groaning of the bells.
May 31, 2017
I didn't like this book one because I don't like poems and second the plot lines for the poems were all mixed up and confusing.
November 23, 2017
What a joy to revisit the poems of Edgar Allan Poe with a group of readers who brought to them thoughts and ideas that enhanced the reading. I love Poe's grasp of mythology, his use of rhyme and rhythm, alliteration, and, yes, even his morose musings. He seems to me to lay a tortured soul in front of us and ask, "What would you do with this? What could you do with it, but mourn?"
I have written individual reviews for The Raven, The Bells and Annabel Lee. I will not revisit them here, but I would like to speak to some of the lesser known poems that touched a chord with me.
To Annie:
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Poe sees life as so much torture and death as a release. And, death is portrayed as an illusion. The onlookers think he is "dead", but he is really in the arms of the woman he loved and lost. And...
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
So, death is inevitable and there is no rest in life...to slumber you must die. It will come to all of us, and he seems to say that while it might look gloomy or confining or sad, it is not. It is simply a release from this world's toil and it is not just his lot, but that of every man.
Alone:
And all I lov'd--I lov'd alone.
I thought this one of the most moving of the poems. There is a real sense of angst in his recognition that he sees the world differently than others and that they cannot understand what is beneath his surface, in his mind. Even his loves cannot be shared or understood by others. They see fluffy clouds, he sees demons in the sky. He cannot explain why the world is darker to him, but he knows that his view separates him from humanity at large.
To Science:
I took this to be more about reality vs. creativity (imagination) than science literally. He cannot help reality imposing itself upon him, and truth destroys the comfort of myth. With science, he must face death as a reality; with myth, he can imagine that he is still able to hold and share the world of his beloved. I thought about Eden--after all, we humans lost Eden because Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge.
And finally,
Dream Within 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.
The ultimate question (especially for Poe), "what is reality?" If hope has flown in a dream or vision is it less gone? Good question. If we feel something deeply, is it not real for us? How do we distinguish between what is and what was and what might be? If we wake on the morning after the loss of someone we love and believe we feel the weight of their body in the bed, can they have been there for that moment? Are there two worlds, ours and theirs, and can we bridge the two? And if there are two worlds, which of them is real...are they the dream, or are we?
There were several of the poems that just left me flat and did not speak to me at all, but for the most part I love his ability to tap into his sorrow and isolation and see his poems as an attempt to connect and reveal himself. He challenges our intellect, makes us ask questions, and what more can a poem do than that? I hope in death he was indeed folded into the arms of his Virginia or granted the gentle sleep that eluded him in life. There is no writer ever whose life and work were more intertwined.
I have written individual reviews for The Raven, The Bells and Annabel Lee. I will not revisit them here, but I would like to speak to some of the lesser known poems that touched a chord with me.
To Annie:
And the fever called "Living"
Is conquered at last.
Poe sees life as so much torture and death as a release. And, death is portrayed as an illusion. The onlookers think he is "dead", but he is really in the arms of the woman he loved and lost. And...
And ah! let it never
Be foolishly said
That my room it is gloomy
And narrow my bed;
For man never slept
In a different bed—
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
So, death is inevitable and there is no rest in life...to slumber you must die. It will come to all of us, and he seems to say that while it might look gloomy or confining or sad, it is not. It is simply a release from this world's toil and it is not just his lot, but that of every man.
Alone:
And all I lov'd--I lov'd alone.
I thought this one of the most moving of the poems. There is a real sense of angst in his recognition that he sees the world differently than others and that they cannot understand what is beneath his surface, in his mind. Even his loves cannot be shared or understood by others. They see fluffy clouds, he sees demons in the sky. He cannot explain why the world is darker to him, but he knows that his view separates him from humanity at large.
To Science:
I took this to be more about reality vs. creativity (imagination) than science literally. He cannot help reality imposing itself upon him, and truth destroys the comfort of myth. With science, he must face death as a reality; with myth, he can imagine that he is still able to hold and share the world of his beloved. I thought about Eden--after all, we humans lost Eden because Adam and Eve ate from the Tree of Knowledge.
And finally,
Dream Within 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.
The ultimate question (especially for Poe), "what is reality?" If hope has flown in a dream or vision is it less gone? Good question. If we feel something deeply, is it not real for us? How do we distinguish between what is and what was and what might be? If we wake on the morning after the loss of someone we love and believe we feel the weight of their body in the bed, can they have been there for that moment? Are there two worlds, ours and theirs, and can we bridge the two? And if there are two worlds, which of them is real...are they the dream, or are we?
There were several of the poems that just left me flat and did not speak to me at all, but for the most part I love his ability to tap into his sorrow and isolation and see his poems as an attempt to connect and reveal himself. He challenges our intellect, makes us ask questions, and what more can a poem do than that? I hope in death he was indeed folded into the arms of his Virginia or granted the gentle sleep that eluded him in life. There is no writer ever whose life and work were more intertwined.
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