I’ve always been fascinated by the work of literary historians, those researchers who go to great lengths to uncover writings we might never have known about. Thanks to these literary detectives, we can enjoy Emily Dickinson’s dirty limericks. We can see that in the first draft of Melville’s classic novel, Moby Dick was a koala. And we can enjoy Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath II: The Joads’ Hawaiian Vacation.
But as a big fan of Edgar Allan Poe I was most thrilled by the recent discovery of an early, unpublished draft of his most famous poem, “The Raven.” It’s a bit different than the version we all know, but I think you’ll agree that this version too is an example of Poe’s genius.
The weird thing is that they found the manuscript in a box under Poe’s bed. Which you’d think would have been one of the first places they looked.
Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary
Over a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore
At my front door came a tapping, a rather loud and raucous rapping
And my buddies yelled “Hey, Edgar, open up the freakin door!”
I knew I was correct in thinking that they’d been out all night drinking
And now were looking for a place to crash upon the floor
But as it turned out, I was wrong—they were asking me along
To hit the bars and thus forget my long lost love, Lenore
Oh Lenore, how much I missed her, missed the last time that I kissed her
As we walked in twilight rays along the ocean’s sandy shore
Oh Lenore, who could resist her? (I also boinked her older sister
Which shouldn’t really count because it happened weeks before)
We often danced into the night and drank champagne till morning’s light
Everybody knew we were the toast of Baltimore
But then there came that fateful day—she caught a cold and passed away
Which happened rather often back in 1834
But still for my lost love I pined, and so my buddies wined and dined
Me as they tried to help me close the book on my Lenore
We hit each tavern and saloon, and got so drunk we even mooned
The mayor, two policemen, and a startled monsignor
We went to every bar in town and finally shut the last one down
And then they took me home and let me stumble in the door
And there I saw the strangest sight—a bird with feathers black as night
A raven! Who looked up at me and whispered “Nevermore”
He stood there in my old recliner, like some thing that rhymes with iner
And gazed at me with eyes as cold as some Antarctic shore
I’d never seen a bird so crafty; then he said “It’s kind of drafty—
Maybe you could be a pal and shut the freakin door”
Was I awake or was I dreaming of this bird with eyes a-gleaming?
Then the raven fluffed his feathers and again said “Nevermore”
And as he stood there preening I said “Fiend, what is thy meaning?”
And the raven said “Well, duh. Hello? I am a metaphor.”
A metaphor! It hit me then; he’d come to drive me mad again
A constant sad reminder of my long lost love Lenore
“Bird!” I cried, “you think you’re clever—I know Lenore is gone forever!”
Then he took flight—and pooped upon my kitchen floor
Now my tale has been recounted and the raven’s stuffed and mounted
He doesn’t speak, for he’s as dead as my Lenore
He rues the day that he was hatched, for the raven proved to be no match
For a poet—with a handy two-by-four
And hey, we’re going to try something new here at the old Desk of John M Donovan: Free Music Friday. Sometimes I’ll post a song that’s relevant to the newsletter content and other times, like today, it’ll just be something I feel like sharing. This one is called “And Now a Number by the Singing Sands,” and it’s from a collection inspired by my many visits to the Keweenaw Peninsula in the UP of Michigan. Enjoy, and let me know if you’d like to hear more.
Keweenaw is really “up north.”(My husband and I used to live in Charlevoix.) Beautiful but cold.