Poe, Edgar Allan, who came, lived and died with all aspects (be it love, life, memories and postlude) humble, tragic and poetic. It all keeps with certain continuity the trend, for the troubled life and untimely demise, to greet the chapter of death which was his obsession in life. The black cloak which seemed to envelope him all his life.

A lowly birth by a beloved mother and father, actors who would reap their rewards somewhat early on as the footlights dimmed and the descending curtain of their lives was accomplished. Poe was to play to an empty house. The matinee of this life would be a stern adoptive father, who never found favor with him, and several stays in large towns of the Northeast, such as Philadelphia, New York City and Baltimore. Here, with an impoverished aunt and her daughter, he would one day be ashes to ashes and dust to dust too early. Poe would make this cousin Virginia, who would be the inspiration of much of his works, his bride of fourteen. The beloved child bride would make her ascent early with the disease of Camille, tuberculosis and leave Poe searching for her in his soul and heart and only answering him as ink would to paper, as a melancholy quill recorded his undying love. She would be the euphoria of many of his heroines.

Having accomplished little scholastically of an advanced nature and moving to Boston, his first muse of works, Tamerlane and Other Poems, would receive but a pittance of attention. Such was the standard for much of his works: sentimental, lovely, endearing and macabre thoughts of his inner being. Working as newspaper and magazine writer, he concentrated on his short story tone of writing despite critics and his troubling neurosis.

So many works come to mind as one remembers this tragic genius. Be it Lady Madeline from The Fall of the House of Usher or the mindset of The Murders in the Rue Morgue, Mask of the Red Death and The Pit and the Pendulum. And three beauties known only to his fervent mind: the love that was lain for Leno re, the song of violet eyes, Eulalie, and "in her sepulcher by the sea," the beautiful Annabelle Lee. But, then and now, young and old, "never more, never more" The Raven, sitting once upon a time on a dreary and weary evening, is the fledgling to anyone's repertoire of Poe. Even in his time, children scampered at his heels saying, "never more, never more" as he walked along the city streets.

As time has passed awards of Pulitzer are awarded to those graduating from typewriter to computer's keystroke. Such was not the case for our downhearted poetic. Instead, on the anniversary of his birth and his destiny with death, a vessel of cognac and three red roses are placed in front of the tableau that bears witness to the forebearer of so many sentiments, two being Raven and Annabelle Lee.

Mark Edward Rogers

May 21, 2000

This page was created and designed byRay Viverette. Any questions about its contents should be directed to the e-mail address below.

E-MAIL