“The true poet dreams being awake.”

Charles Lamb

I thought I’d start this year with a most interesting writer and poet, Edgar Allen Poe. I was introduced to him in high school way back in the days of covered wagons and wild Indians (that was sarcasm). His poetry was spooky, dark, and mysterious which drew me to it immediately. What 15-year-old kid wouldn’t love that? As with most school systems of the time they offered only a few of his writings for classroom work and discussion. The Raven stands as one of his greatest works and we were required to read and memorize certain passages to get a passing grade and then we moved on to other things. My second Poe favorite was Anabel Lee. A love story for the ages except Anabel doesn’t long survive the experience. The flow of his words in that poem grabbed me immediately and I was able to quote some of its passages for years and occasionally still do.

As I aged and was able to read more about Poe and his strange approach to life, the more attention I began to pay to poetry in general. I still think that actual world class poets are few and far between, but Poe was the real deal. Along with Emily Dickenson they are my two favorites. I especially liked Poe because he wrote what he felt and really did nothing to pander to the masses. In my opinion that’s what gives his works real meaning and weight.

Another of Poe’s works has slowly over the years made its way to the top of my favorites list, even more so than the Raven and Anabel Lee. I stumbled on to it quite by accident years ago and it has become one of those rare things that periodically calls to me to be read again. As with all of Poe’s poetry it’s best read while wrapped in a warm blanket on a dark and stormy night by candlelight.

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 –

And all I lov’d – I lov’d alone –

Then – in my childhood – in the dawn

Of a most stormy life – was drawn

From ev’ry depth of good and ill

The mystery which binds me still –

From the torrent, or the fountain –

From the red cliff of the mountain –

From the sun that ’round me roll’d

In its autumn tint of gold –

From the lightning in the sky

As it passed me flying by –

From the thunder, and the storm –

And the cloud that took the form

(When the rest of Heaven was blue)

Of a demon in my view.

1829

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WELCOME TO 2024