Edgar Allan Poe

Annabel Lee

It was many and many a year ago,
In a kingdom by the sea,
That a maiden there lived whom you may know
By the name of ANNABEL LEE;
And this maiden she lived with no other thought
Than to love and be loved by me.

I was a child and she was a child,
In this kingdom by the sea;
But we loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.

And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.

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.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love
Of those who were older than we-
Of many far wiser than we-
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.

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.

==

Mamacita says:  So much of Poe’s works are gruesome without the saving romantic touch, but Annabel Lee is both gruesome AND romantic, and I’ve liked it since I was a very little girl.

Sure, sure, we could parse it within an inch of its life, but poetry is never the same once it’s been dissected, labeled, and sewn together again.

Savor this one.  Picture it.  Sense it.

Poe’s Annabel Lee is a page of emotional macabre.  Dig it.

Little Boy Blue

The little toy dog is covered with dust,
But sturdy and staunch he stands,
And the little toy soldier is red with rust,
And his musket molds in his hands.
Time was when the the little toy dog was new,
And the soldier was passing fair,
And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue
Kissed them and put them there.

“Now, don’t you go till I come,” he said,
“And don’t you make any noise!”
So toddling off to his trundle bed
He dreamed of his pretty toys.
And as he was dreaming, an angel song
Awakened our Little Boy Blue.
Oh, the years are many, the years are long,
But the little toy friends are true.

Aye, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand,
Each in the same old place,
Awaiting the touch of a little hand,
And the smile of a little face.
And they wonder, as waiting these long years through,
In the dust of that little chair,
What has become of our Little Boy Blue
Since he kissed them and put them there.

====

Mamacita says:  This one still makes me cry.

I remember when I first understood that this poem was about a little boy whose heartbroken toys were faithfully waiting for him to come back, not understanding that the child was dead.  I think perhaps this poem is the main reason why the Toy Story films make me apprehensive.

This poem is also why angels scared me for many years. I was so afraid that an angel would try to wake me, too.

Again, we could talk about rhyme scheme and symbolism and nicknames and references and first person narratives and quotations and the tragic fact that an awful lot of toddlers died for no apparent reason back in Victorian times.

But I think this poem is best appreciated for its very personal, very sweet, very sad, and very vivid description of a deserted toyroom full of rusting, dusty, once-beloved toys that are waiting for a little boy who will never enter that room again.

You’ve Got To Be Taught

You’ve got to be taught to hate and fear,
You’ve got to be taught from year to year,
It’s got to be drummed in your dear little ear,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught to be afraid
Of People whose eyes are oddly made
And people whose skin is a different shade
You’ve got to be carefully taught,
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

You’ve got to be taught before it’s too late.
Before you are six or seven or eight
To hate all the people your relatives hate.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.
You’ve got to be carefully taught.

—–from South Pacific

==

Mamacita says:  South Pacific was a landmark show for many reasons, the main one of which (in my opinion) is the attitude it took regarding race.  Imagine the looks on the prunes-and-prisms bigots when Lt. Joe Cable fell in love with the beautiful Tonkinese girl, Liat, whose mother turns out to be Bloody Mary.  Just think of the shock when prejudiced America discovered that the two little half-breed children were the offspring of the Frenchman, Emile De Becque and his native islander wife, who is deceased.  Nellie Forbush, the naive little nurse from Little Rock, can’t deal with it; it’s too far removed from what she knows.

Characters we are supposed to love turn out to harbor horrendous racial prejudices that threaten their futures.  I suppose there are still people who think this way; it’s hard for me to comprehend.

The point, I think, is that nobody is born with these, or any other kind, of prejudices.  Prejudices are taught to us from an early age by prejudiced people.

Let me repeat:  NOBODY IS BORN WITH PREJUDICES.  Ever.  Carved in stone.  Fact.

We fear and hate what we are taught by others to fear and hate, and people who feel it is their duty to teach children to fear and hate are among the worst of humankind.  I hope there is a specially horrible circle of hell for parents who deliberately teach their children to hate, fear, and suspect people who are in any way different from themselves.

I had a conversation once, several years ago, with an older lady I loved very much, but any respect I might have had for her convictions was absolutely and 100% negated when she told me that it was possible to be prejudiced AND Christian, for she was both.

I could not, and still can not, sanction that combination.  No. I would love this lady always, but nothing she said to me about her religion meant anything after that revelation.

These lyrics are, of course, song lyrics, but my students MIGHT be able to remind you that all songs are also poems, and that anyone who likes even one song likes one poem, too.  Each song you like equals another poem you like.  I’d wager money, if I had any, that a lot of people who swear they hate poetry would also state that they loved music.

Hypocrites.    You can’t have one without the other.

I love South Pacific.  I love most Broadway musicals, in fact.   But these particular lyrics have always hit me in a sensitive spot, and helped me to understand that no, nobody is born prejudiced, and all of those who ARE prejudiced were taught to be so and have actively chosen to remain so.

In other words:  no viable excuse, whatsoever.

Sonnet

I am in need of music that would flow
Over my fretful, feeling finger-tips,
Over my bitter-tainted, trembling lips,
With melody, deep, clear, and liquid-slow.
Oh, for the healing swaying, old and low,
Of some song sung to rest the tired dead,
A song to fall like water on my head,
And over quivering limbs, dream flushed to glow !

There is a magic made by melody:
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colors deep
to the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.

=====

Mamacita says:  I remember the day I discovered this poem.  The first thought that crossed my mind was “How in the world has this poem escaped my notice all these years?”  I was actually angry!

Then again, I might not have fully appreciated this poem if I had found it earlier.  It takes more than a love of music and a playlist of thousands of songs to understand music.

I am assuming that you all do realize that a good poem is simply a good song, minus the melody. . . .

Those of you out there who claim to dislike poetry?  To be consistent, you will have to claim to dislike music, too; otherwise, your ignorance will be exposed to the universe at large, and the universe at large has great big hands and long scary fingers, and important inconsistencies are pointed and laughed at by a far larger, mightier, and more important audience that inconsistent people will ever know.  And even if they DID know, they probably wouldn’t understand.

You know, like the people who fear Harry Potter yet adore Disney.   In other words, stupid people.

Oh, dear, is that politically incorrect?  The truth often is.

Now let us all point and laugh at such.  We won’t hurt their sensitive fragile delicate feelings, as inconsistent people have been avoiding this blog for years.  Nobody misses them.  Except for, you know, entertainment purposes.

This poem is about a song, about a melody.  This poem is itself a song.  This poem also makes us long for more songs, and remember beloved songs.  Dumbledore says it thus: “Ah, music,” he said, wiping his eyes. “A magic far beyond all we do here!

Take the melody away (if you can!) from any song and what have you got?  The lyrics.  And what are lyrics?  Poems.

Administrators have forgotten that ultimately, our culture will be judged on the arts; that’s how we learn about ancient cultures. We did not find any remnants of standardized test scores or sports stats in Pompeii; we found art and day-to-day ordinary living; loaves of bread, and graffiti, and clay pots for sale, and poems.   Yes, the ancients liked sports; part of the Coliseum is still standing, but it wasn’t the hub and whole of their existence. They valued music, and sculpture, and dance, and poetry, and creativity of all kinds. Astronomy was considered an art by the ancient Greeks, and, indeed, who can properly study the stars without also studying the fabulous stories that gave the night sky’s formations their names? It is not possible to do so. If your child’s teacher is “teaching” astronomy and not mentioning the myths, your child has a poor teacher.

Cultures that valued the arts live on, even when they and their structures are gone.

What do Americans value? Gossip and scandal and immoral politicians? Drug-addicted sports figures and out-of-wedlock pregnancies? Prostitutes Athletes with bloated egos and high-priced pimps managers?  Lindsay and Britney and Brangelina and TomKat and celeb sightings and scores, all kinds of scores: sexual and standardized and steroid-filled scores.   Adultery made to look golden. Talentless hacks and wealthy nobodies with good agents. CoughcoughcoughKardashianscoughcough.  I hate thinking what we’ve come down to as a culture.

There was a time when a high school principal would hire a professional musician to fill an empty seat in the school orchestra; it was that important.  Now, if there is an empty seat, the class is canceled and the music teacher is either “downsized” or given a lot of before-school and after-school and cafeteria duty, and a couple of study halls for the non-participatory segment of our younger society which is growing larger every day.  I mean, why do a lot of unnecessary work when you get the same rewards for not doing it?

What will archaeologists find a thousand years from now when they dig up what remains of America?  A lot of crumbling gymnasiums and enough rock-hard fossilized breast and lip-shaped collagen to sink a ship?

We should be nurturing our young artists and musicians and scientists, not relegating them to the back of the room so we can look good on paper in the subjects that are easy to measure for a bunch of withered humorless twits with no balls and no guts and no gumption.  I believe in testing, yes, definitely.  But not to the exclusion of the arts, and I will say this again:  Cramming a lot of facts in our kids’ heads and then asking them to bubble them right back is not the same thing as educating them.

I’ll say this again, too:  The most important things our children should be learning can’t be tested.

One more thing:  Why can’t we let our children be children?  Almost every minute of their adult lives will be regulated and scheduled and over-scheduled; why can’t they have their summers and their weekends and their after-school time, to be kids?  Because you know as well as I do, that the moment a bunch of anal boring adults steps in to “take charge” of the ball game or the bicycle ride or the hike or the impromptu soccer match in the back lot, all of the fun is going to be drained completely out, everybody will have to buy a uniform and a helmet, and adults will start showing up to keep score and yell at the little kid who stooped to look at the cool anthill and let the ball fly right over his head.

Remember when high school kids could participate in several sports, because the year was divided into “seasons?”  Now, most kids are required to choose one sport and only one, because what was once a “season” has grown into a year-long practice session.  We don’t want a losing team, now do we?

I once had a student who was a starter on the varsity football team AND a member of the marching band.  At half-time, he didn’t go take a pee and grab a soda with the rest of the team; he grabbed his trumpet and joined the formation and marched in his helmet and uniform.  It was mind-blowingly inspiring.  This kid is now a professional musician and a successful one, I might add.  I’m proud of you, Jeremy!

He wouldn’t be allowed to do that, now.  Oh, heavens, no.

Now, a kid has to choose between music and sports, because the coaches just won’t allow any of the team members to do something weird like that.  Absolutely forbidden.

I hate this.

Oh, and that chick in Georgia  who maintains that science and social studies are not important? NOT IMPORTANT?  She had to have fallen down the stupid tree and hit every branch on the way down.*

Yes, it’s very late.  Yes, I definitely need a sandwich.  But if I make one,  it might make me even more surly.  Are you sure you want to risk that?

*Yes, I know it’s really the “ugly tree,”** but I changed it to fit the context.  So bite me.

**  Politically incorrect?  Like I care.

===

Parts of this post were published in August of 2009.  My opinions haven’t changed, and may have become even more surly.

Richard Cory

Whenever Richard Cory went down town,
We people on the pavement looked at him;
He was a gentleman from sole to crown,
Clean favored, and imperially slim.

And he was always quietly arrayed,
And he was always human when he talked;
But still he fluttered pulses when he said,
“Good morning,” and he glittered when he walked.

And he was rich – yes, richer than a king,
And admirably schooled in every grace;
In fine, we thought that he was everything
To make us wish that we were in his place.

So on we worked, and waited for the light,
and went without the meat, and cursed the bread;
And Richard Cory, one calm summer night,
Went home and put a bullet through his head.

====

Mamacita says:  Oh, such rhyme scheme perfection – such pristine and perfect ABAB, CDCD, etc.

Pay attention to that part if you wish; I appreciate a good rhyme scheme myself, but the technical part isn’t the only part of a poem.

Poor Richard Cory.  Filthy rich, expensive yet tasteful clothing, lovely manners, handsome, slim. . . . .  Anybody would be happy with all that.  He didn’t even have to work.  He could do anything he wanted, any time he wanted.  Compared to everybody else in town, Richard Cory had it made, and was the happiest man there.

Um, no.

Money isn’t everything, even if one has some, and Richard Cory, while he obviously had everything money could buy, apparently wanted something his money couldn’t buy, and that something money couldn’t buy was so much more important than wealth or looks or clothing or manners or education that Richard Cory, not having it, felt that life, even with everything else, wasn’t worth living so he stopped.

I first encountered this poem in junior high and it blew me away.  I’m not back yet, in fact.  It affected me greatly, and I’m still reeling from the effect.

Simon and Garfunkle liked this poem, too.  They liked it enough to turn it into a song, in fact.

Mamacita says:  If you have seen the movie “Four Weddings and a Funeral,” you are already familiar with W.H. Auden.  His haunting and heartbreaking “Funeral Blues” was recited by John Hannah in this film, and it was unforgettable.

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks; cut off the telephone;
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin; let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbbling on the sky the message, “He Is Dead.”
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East, my West,
My working week and my Sunday rest.
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever. I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one.
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun.
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

===

Oh, sure, ABAB, CDCD, etc, but honestly.  If that’s all you carry away from this poem, you’re deficient somehow, and I suspect the deficiency is in the heart, which, scientifically speaking, is actually in the brain.  Draw whatever conclusions you wish.

When I try to say this poem aloud, I break down.  I break down, not only because of the heartbreak, but because of the way Auden chose his words and word combinations carefully so we could  link the heartbreak to our own experiences and feel them as strongly as if they were happening again, fresh.

The first person pronouns in this poem make it as personal as if this broken human were standing before us all, baring his broken heart to the world.  Which is, of course, exactly what he is doing.

What good are stars if the one we love is no longer there to see them with us?  Without our beloved, the moon is nothing but a snare and lure for madmen.  Who cares about the sea or the forest if our lives are bereft of all that made them worth living?  Stop the music.  Muzzle the dogs.  And why would we need to know the time of day if we’re all alone and can conceive of nothing else but solitude for the rest of our lives?

And why isn’t t everyone and everything else  grieving, too?  How dare the policemen go about their business?  How dare a plane cross the sky?  How dare a bird fly and chirp; how dare music play on, as if the world had not spun amuck beneath them?

“I thought that love would last forever.  I was wrong.”

That’s the line that pierces my very soul, as sharply as a spear.

Did I mention that I love this poem?  Do I have to mention it?  Can’t you tell?  Because if you can’t tell if I love a poem or not, I’m not doing something right.

The fact is, hearts break like this daily.  Hourly.  Every second of every day, someone’s heart is broken.  And in spite of the fact that nothing on this earth will ever be the same again for these people, this earth just keeps on spinning as though nothing had happened at all.

Because, of course, nothing has.  Except for the one with the broken heart.

Bread and Music

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread.
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always;
They knew you once, oh beautiful and wise.

==

Mamacita says:  Once again, we have love, and grief, and memories.

Not just the memory of someone we loved, and love still, but the memories of that loved one’s touch on inanimate objects.

Have you ever noticed, and wondered about, the unique and lovely patina on old silverware? It’s not a special silver. That patina is made by being touched by human skin.

Your grandmother’s silverware looks like that because it’s been touched over and over again by the skin of people you loved.

New silver is just shiny. Old silver glows. Silver isn’t really beautiful until a lot of skin rubs up against it.

And even after people who touched and used these things daily are gone, the effects of their touch live on, and we add to it with our own skin.

When someone we love has gone, we look at “things” in new ways. We see, not a dish or spoon, but a dish or spoon being touched and used by the hands of our beloveds. We picture in our minds our loved one holding that book, using that comb, sitting in that chair, and these memories make those mundane things far more beautiful than they ever were when new and untouched.

Perhaps this is the difference between an antique and an old chair.

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways

She dwelt among the untrodden ways
Beside the springs of Dove,
A Maid whom there were none to praise
And very few to love:

A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye!
Fair as a star, when only one
Is shining in the sky.

She lived unknown, and few could know
When Lucy ceased to be;
But she is in her grave, and, oh,
The difference to me!

===

Mamacita says:  If one is fortunate enough to be loved by a poet, one becomes immortal.  Wordsworth’s Lucy was unknown to the world, and her death changed nothing for most people.  But because Wordsworth wrote about her, her LIFE is known to us – at least, the importance of that life to one man – and understanding that one little thing should make a huge difference to all of us.

How many people do you know who are out there living and loving and working hard and receiving little or no recognition for it?  That would be most of us, I’d guess.  Let us all take a little time to look around and genuinely notice those who are content – on the surface, anyway – to remain in the background, supporting, feeding, nurturing, nourishing in many ways.

I have loved this little poem of Wordsworth’s for many years.  When I first encountered it, its wealth of love and emotion packed into a few brief lines hit me so hard I was glad I was sitting down.

Lucy’s life enriched the poet, and her death made a difference to him.  O, such a difference. . . .

When my students study the Holocaust, or participate in a discussion of disaster, war, etc – really, any large-scale catastrophe – one of my main goals is to make sure they understand that large numbers – statistics – are really people, and that when the see the pictures of these tragedies, every single face belongs to a human being who was precious to someone.  Husbands, wives, children, lovers, neighbors, friends. . . .   one of the reasons I dislike statistics so much is that to deal with them objectively removes the humanity.  Statistics are people.

Paul Brodeur phrases it even better:  Statistics are human beings with the tears wiped off.

The majority of people in Lucy’s world probably didn’t even know she existed, yet she was so important to Wordsworth that he immortalized her and what she meant to him in beautiful words that, well over a hundred years later, still have the power to kick us in the back of the knees.

Picture a violet by a mossy stone.  One violet.  Picture a star, one shining star, alone in the black night sky.  Are these images not more uniquely beautiful than many violets, many stars?  I think they are.

Romeo speaks of Juliet as a white dove trooping with crows.  He is telling us that even in a crowd, she stands out, yes, that much.  Imagery.

Oh, sure, I could lecture you about rhyme scheme and metaphors, but poets don’t write poems so their words could be dissected and analyzed.  They write poems to help us see that the world is full of wonder.  To dissect it is to kill it.

Imagery.  Emotion.  Love.  Sorrow.  Those are powerfully big punches to be contained in so few words.

That’s what poetry does, young Padawan.

A B A B, C D C D, E F E F.  Now, poetry dissectors, we know all about it, don’t we.

I Shall Not Care

When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you should lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.

– Sara Teasdale

===

Mamacita says:  I could lecture you about rhyme scheme, or hyphenated adjectives, or metaphors, or similes, or descriptive/figurative  language, or death, or the difference between “shall” and “will,” or personification, or comparisons, sure, I could do that.

But what I would rather do is just ask you to read those few lines and picture it in your mind, and think about heartbreak and revenge.