The Always and Wonderfully Mysterious Poe

Greetings,

      Today is, of course, the 201^st birthday of Edgar Allan Poe.  Most of you have heard my complaint about how first the media, then the money grubbing University of Maryland, which bought the old Westminster Presbyterian Church, and Jeff Jerome, curator of the Edgar Allan Poe house, took over and ruined the traditional quiet Poe celebration and toast at midnight at his grave in Baltimore.  This year it was not possible to have our annual Poe party last night - it will be later.  So I found myself alone very early this morning reading some of the poems and passages from a couple of the stories, and toasting Edgar with thanksgiving for his genius which, in the midst of his tortured life, he shared with us. 

      The big news today is that the “mysterious stranger” who every year since 1949 has left at Poe’s grave a bottle of cognac and a rose did not appear this early morning.  The late J. William Joynes, Sr., the feature editor of the old Baltimore News Post and Sunday American newspaper wrote about the Poe toaster and the small group of fans who would gather at the grave in the Westminster Presbyterian Church at midnight, the morning of the 19^th to toast Poe.  That group would leave immediately so as to not interfere with the coming of the mysterious stranger.  I think it was 1957 when I was first invited to go with Bill to the grave and to join the pastor of the church in the undercroft of the church to watch in silence for the appearance of the mysterious stranger.  Every year we would wait, and never dream of being visibly present or of in any way photographing that private moment.

      Poe continues to be an enigma, confounding those who think they understand him, his life, and his death.  He writes in the opening of Imitation:

            A dark unfathom’d tide

            Of interminable pride—

            A mystery, and a dream,

            Should my early life seem;

            I say that dream was fraught

            With a wild, and waking thought

            Of beings that have been,

            Which my spirit hath not seen.

      The depth of his insights into the human mind and psyche are truly amazing.  The magnificence of his poetic ability is overwhelming.  As witness the end of the first stanza of The Bells:

                                    While the stars that oversprinkle

                                    All the Heavens, seem to twinkle

                                    With a crystalline delight;

                        Keeping time, time, time,

                         In a sort of Runic rhyme,

            To the tintinabulation that so musically wells

            From the bells, bells, bells, bells,

                                    Bells, bells, bells—

                                    From the jangling and the tinkling of the bells.

      Even his prose is truly poetic.  One of my favorite passages is the closing paragraph of , well, you will recognize it.

“From that chamber, and from that mansion, I fled aghast.  The storm was still abroad in all its wrath as I found myself crossing the old causeway.  Suddenly there shot along the path a wild light, and I turned to see whence a gleam so unusual could have issued; for the vast house and its shadows were alone behind me.  The radiance was that of the full, setting, and blood-red moon, which now shone vividly through that once barely-discernible fissure, of which I have before spoken as extending from the roof of the building, in a zigzag direction, to the base.  While I gazed, this fissure rapidly widened—there came a fierce breath of the whirlwind—the entire orb of the satellite burst at once upon my sight—my brain reeled as I saw the mighty walls rushing asunder—there was a long tumultuous shouting sound like the voice of a thousand waters—and the deep and dank tarn at my feet closed sullenly and silently over the fragments of the “House of Usher.”

      Edgar Allan Poe’s religious views were unconventional, though they may seem considerably less so today, with our dizzying array of groups preaching a virtual cornucopia of spiritual possibilities.  It would certainly have been understandable if Poe had lost confidence in a divine hand, one that directs our daily lives for purposes of our own spiritual benefit. The sad and youthful deaths of so many loved ones (his mother, Mrs. Stanard, Frances Allan, his brother and especially the long and lingering illness of his wife Virginia) would have tested anyone’s faith.  Poverty, illness and failure no doubt seemed his constant companions.  If we can accept the testimony of Dr. John Moran, which was his alone, Poe’s last words were “Lord, help my poor soul.”  The most realistic view is that Poe’s religious inclinations changed greatly back and forth during his lifetime, but were never seriously abandoned.

      While he was baptized and confirmed in the Episcopal Church and attended Presbyterian Churches, he was moved to write this prayer in the Roman Catholic tradition of offering prayers to Jesus’ mother, Mary (Sancta Maria – Holy Mary).

Sancta Maria! turn thine eyes
Upon the sinner's sacrifice
Of fervent prayer and humble love,
From thy holy throne above.
At morn, at noon, at twilight dim
Maria! thou hast heard my hymn.
In joy and wo, in good and ill
Mother of God! be with us still.
When my hours flew gently by,
And no storms were in the sky,
My soul, lest it should truant be —
Thy love did guide to thine and thee.
Now, when clouds of Fate o'ercast
All my Present, and my Past,
Let my Future radiant shine
With sweet hopes of thee and thine.

      There is just so very much in Poe that is wonderful.  We have not yet set the date for our annual Poe Party, but hope to have it soon.  We will share some of our favorite passage, everyone will be invited to read, or have read their favorite Poe.  We will have some Poe refreshments and some Poe libations.  Give me a call, or e-mail me, if you would like to join us, and we will discuss dates.

Yours & His,

DED