"Nevermore"

The Raven- Edgar Allen Poe Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary, Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore, While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door. `'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door - Only this, and nothing more.' Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December, And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor. Eagerly I wished the morrow; - vainly I had sought to borrow From my books surcease of sorrow - sorrow for the lost Lenore - For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Nameless here for evermore. And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain Thrilled me - filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before; So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating `'Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door - Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; - This it is, and nothing more,' Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, `Sir,' said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, That I scarce was sure I heard you' - here I opened wide the door; - Darkness there, and nothing more. Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before; But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token, And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!' This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!' Merely this and nothing more. Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning, Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before. `Surely,' said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice; Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore - Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; - 'Tis the wind and nothing more!' Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door - Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door - Perched, and sat, and nothing more. Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore, `Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,' I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore - Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning - little relevancy bore; For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door - Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door, With such name as `Nevermore.' But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only, That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour. Nothing further then he uttered - not a feather then he fluttered - Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before - On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.' Then the bird said, `Nevermore.' Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken, `Doubtless,' said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store, Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore - Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore Of "Never-nevermore."' 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; Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore - What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore Meant in croaking `Nevermore.' This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core; This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er, But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er, She shall press, ah, nevermore! Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor. `Wretch,' I cried, `thy God hath lent thee - by these angels he has sent thee Respite - respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore! Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! - Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore, Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted - On this home by horror haunted - tell me truly, I implore - Is there - is there balm in Gilead? - tell me - tell me, I implore!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Prophet!' said I, `thing of evil! - prophet still, if bird or devil! By that Heaven that bends above us - by that God we both adore - Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels named Lenore - Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels named Lenore?' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' `Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!' I shrieked upstarting - `Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! - quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!' Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.' 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! This image is the big picture. The Raven as it is perched upon the head of Athena, casts an unforgiving shadow on the narrator.   This image is a closer look at the Raven and it's resting spot of choice. Here is where you can listen to James Earl Jones recite The Raven. I personally love his voice and the combination of sounds he is forced to make as he reads each word.  Listening and reading this poem is such a treat. I absolutely love everything about this poem and the emotion it evokes as well as its hard, repetitive sound.  The entire poem is pretty much alliteration and repetition. Wherever Poe was able to fit it in, he did.  Giving it the blunt and hard, but also fluent sounds. I believe this is what gives the poem its morose tone.    The Raven is not only the title of the poem, but the main character so to speak.  Here it says that a raven is a symbol of a variety of things depending on the context as well as the culture. In Greek culture, the raven is a messenger of the God Apollo. With this reference, it would tie together the reasoning as to why the raven is perched on the top of Athena's head. In many other cultures, the raven is a symbol of hard times, battle, and destruction.  After doing some research it is more apparent why Edgar chose to use a raven. In the poem the raven gives a message provoking horrible feelings which in return causes difficult change. Nevermore is the love Poe once had with Lenore. This causes Poe's shadow (soul?) to detach itself from his body, lying floating on the floor.

Sex Without Love // Our Love

Sex Without Love - Sharon Olds

How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers, gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the 
come to the come to the God come to the 
still water, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as the steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the 
preist instead of the God, They so not 
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are the great runners: they know they are aline
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fir of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health- just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the 
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.

Our Love - Diamelen Partridge

Love, thick as thieves, yet
as delicate as the paper you write it on.
Unfolding.
I open it up, I lay my eyes upon it.
Upon you.
So fragile are the actions we engage in,
wondering if the palpitations are mutual.
Shocked is my cheek from the spark of your lips.
This is no longer a simple admiration, but a skipping
of my heart. Stopped with your words,
started with your smile. It a viscous ongoing cycle.
Is this love? Your head as it rests in my lap?
Different is this love that we have. I feel it
in your smile, in your laugh. Not in the way
my friends so constantly rave about.
Your hand so much larger than mine
but made just for me. We've gone from
a shy glance to you so generously rubbing my sore feet.
Im convinced.
I can see it, it's as thick as the blood that fuels
my internal flame for you.
For us.



**Please forgive me for I have no reason why the first poem is in a different color.**

A Beginning to an End

Where the Sidewalk Ends:
Shel Silverstein

There is a place where the sidewalk ends
and before the street begins,
and there the grass grows soft and white,
and there the sun burns crimson bright,
and there the moon-bird rests from his flight
to cool in the peppermint wind.

Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
and the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
we shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow
and watch where the chalk-white arrows go
to the place where the sidewalk ends.

Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
and we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
for the children, they mark, and the children, they know,
the place where the sidewalk ends.

Response: A Beginning to an End

This is where is all begins 

it's the place where the sidewalk ends.

Where dreams arise and find the light,

where the sun comes up from the night,

and were all amazed by our new sight

of the world and yet to come.

We are all to take the leap into the new world,

and to find our blossoming niches.

This can be somewhat bizarre, 

similar to driving a brand new car,

but amongst the stars we find who we are

past where the sidewalk ends.

Sure, it may take a push, and a shove,

but wonder is what we find plenty of,

our family emitting tons of love,

this is where it all begins.

We Grow Accustomed to the Dark

   To be honest, I have tried to steer clear of Poetry. However, I felt that Emily Dickinson's poem We Grow Accustomed to the Dark lured me when we read it in class. The words not only had a punch when spoken, there was also a softness to them.

  That being said, I feel like the subject of the poem was mysterious yet beautiful.

  The absence of light, to me, in the beginning seems to try and invoke fear. As we go along, we are given a glimpse of hope. The moon comes out and there is a possibility for a star to shine within. One looks forward to this sliver of light.

   I think the reason I found this the concept so fascinating is because dark is unknown. People today find thrill and excitement from the dark. From the unknown.


This clip is from a T.V. show on the Syfy channel. Contestants compete in the dark to win a grand prize. This is an example where darkness produces fear.

This link is to a popular restaurant where customers can dine in the dark. They are able to experience food in a whole new light (haha). 

                                           
                                            http://www.darkdining.com/index_main.php

A Very Old Man, Continued.

   A Very Old Man with Enormous wings is a heart wrenching tale. An old man is cast down into a village of fault finders. A family in need of a savior. The old man unknowingly happened to be their light. Miraculously, their child was healed but did not know how and were left to wonder.  Heedless to the actions of the old man, they stripped him of pride, selling it to eager vultures for a pretty penny. Over seasons, a seed of faith grew inside the aching heart of the frail man. As did his feathers. One morning, with the rising sun, his wings followed and he soared. The village shrank with every flap of his pride. 

A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings

   It was not until I had reached the middle of A Very Old Man with Enormous Wings that it reminded me of a book I had when I was a child. My grandfather gave me a book of Aesop's most popular fables for a birthday of mine.

   This book was filled with fables that all told a story that would have some useful life meaning behind it. Whether it was crystal clear or I had to have my mother explain it to me, there was some sort of lesson. To me, this is one of those times where I had to look a little deeper into the meaning behind the story.

Aesop's fables - link to a page full of them!

  The moral of the story is not one that is simply put. 

   The family in the story, to me, is portrayed as one without many funds and isn't living the ideal life. Which I found to be very ironic that they would try to make money off of the poor man's misfortunes. In the beginning of the story, the old woman is very sure that the man is an angel but has been roughed up. But as the story goes on, it says how they pluck his wings and is left to burrow in the mud looking no more majestic than a bat. This poor man is stripped of what could have been a beautiful set of wings had the villagers taken care of them and was then left to be roomies with the chickens.

    As the story goes on, Marquez tells us that the man becomes very ill and was not expected to live much longer. However, he survived through the winter and to my surprise, started to grow strong and beautiful feathers. 

     

     And this is where it all came together for me. Even though this man (who we think is sent from heaven) is put through a living hell and is stripped of his dignity, was able to persevere and take flight. Not only did he have perseverance and patience, he sacrificed himself for a family who had nothing to their name, sold his pride, and were never thankful for the money they were "given" even though if it weren't for him, they would be worse off. 

 I guess you could call them morals, but to me, this is what I felt the story was trying to portray. 

     1. You never know when or how you will be blessed, but when you are, be thankful. 

     2. Don't let others try and determine your fate. ( plucking his feathers and leaving him to die)

     3. How quick are you to benefit off of someone's misfortunes? 

In search of images to put up here, I found a trailer for a production of the tale on youtube. 

  

    

   

Open Your Ears: Sonny's Blues

    I chose to write this blog post on Sonny's Blues because I found it very captivating and thought it was a very touching story. While reading I found that there were many recurring themes throughout the whole story, but the one thing I thought was very dominate and felt that it impacted the whole story was "listening". In the beginning it mentions that the Narrator listens to the boy laughing outside of his window and how it captivates him and brings him back to a much later time when him and his brother were children. I found this to be a key factor which would later play another role in the story. 

    As I continued to read, there were numerous occasions where listening played the role of different senses and feelings, which I believed to be very powerful and added depth to his story. For example, when the Narrator is talking about how his wife knew something was wrong with their daughter when she heard the daughter fall but heard no tears. Fear was immediately was invoked in her and she rushed to her child to find that she was in desperate need of help. At the very end when Sonny invites the Narrator to come and finally listen to him play his music, the Narrator sees his parents as well as his little girl who had died.

     Even though the Sonny and the Narrator were constantly butting heads, its when the Narrator listened to his brothers music that he was able to see who he really was and understand his suffering as well as accept his own.