Edgar Allan Poe
An American literary icon but what caused his death none seem to know
He was more than a man of words the great Edgar Allan Poe
He died when in his forties his best writing years of him ahead
His fame has attained greatness and he is widely read.
Most writers in their forties have scarcely reached their writing prime
His marvellous poem 'The Raven' has not faded out in time
A writer for all ages and one of literary note
And many who love literature have him as their favourite poet.
In life he was quite famous in death greatness he did attain
As an immortal literary gem 'The Raven' does remain
In the English speaking Countries of the World from North to Southern shore
His writings remain popular and his readers now far more
Than he had in his lifetime his genius is living on
Whilst millions of his contemporaries to obscurity have gone
Despite the passing of time his literary legend grow
Though in his too brief life span few him did wish to know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Related quotes
Edgar Allan Poe
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
He'll tell you tales of horror
then he'll play with your mind
if you haven't heard of him
you must be deaf or blind
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
He'll tell you about Usher
whose house burned in his mind
his love for his dear sister
her death would drive him wild
The murder of a stranger
the murder of a friend
the callings from the pits of hell
that never seem to end
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
These are the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
The diabolic image of the city and the sea
the chaos and the carnage that reside deep within me
Decapitations, poisonings, hellish not a bore
you won't need 3D glasses to pass beyond this door
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
No Nosferatu Vincent Price or naked women here
a mind unfurled, a mind unbent is all we have here
Truth, fried orangutans flutter to the stage
leave your expectations home
And listen to the stories of Edgar Allan Poe
We give you the soliloquy the raven at the door
flaming pits the moving walls no equilibrium
No ballast, no bombast
the unvarnished truth we've got
mind swoons guilty
cooking ravings in a pot
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
Edgar Allan Poe
not exactly the boy next door
Tell-tale heart a rotting cask
a valley of unrest
a conqueror worm devouring souls
keep the best for last
Rings for Annie Lee
as Poe's buried alive
regretting his beloved's death in
all her many guises-a
song performed by by Lou Reed
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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39
I only woke this morning
To find the world is fair—
I’m going on for forty,
With scarcely one grey hair;
I’m going on for forty,
Where man’s strong life begins,
With scarce a sign of crows’ feet,
In spite of all my sins.
Then here’s the living Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the living Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.
The teens were black and bitter,
A smothered boyhood’s grave—
A farm-drudge in the drought-time,
A weary workshop slave.
But twenty years have laid them,
And all the world is fair—
We’ll find time in the Forties,
To have some boyhood there.
Then here’s the wide, free Forties—
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the wide, free Forties!
We’re good for ten years more!
The twenties they were noble,
The bravest years, I think;
’Twas man to man in trouble,
In working and in drink;
’Twas man to man in fighting,
For money or for praise.
And we’ll find in the Forties
Some more Bohemian days.
Then here’s the wiser Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
Then here’s the wiser Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.
The thirties were the fate years;
I fought behind the scenes.
The thirties were more cruel
And blacker than the teens;
I held them not but bore them—
They were no years of mine;
But they are going from me,
For I am thirty-nine.
So here’s the stronger Forties!
The Forties! The Forties!
And here’s the good old Forties!
We’re good for ten years more.
poem by Henry Lawson
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Speranza's Son
His poems and plays are literary gems his quotes popular today
A genius and a great poet with words he had a way
Incarcerated in Reading Jail he lived at a time
When for a man to love another man was looked on as a crime.
His mother was a great poet Speranza was her name
In the Dublin literary circles of her time she was one who knew fame
She gave to the World Oscar Wilde the truly enlightened one
What woman would not feel proud to give birth to such a son.
His father the antiquarian and gifted writer became famed far and wide
And as an expert on human diseases his worth could not be denied
But nowadays he is better known as Oscar's father the wit and literary great
A legend for the ages and one to celebrate.
The Importance of Being Earnest, The Ballad of Reading Jail
and Lady Windermere's Fan
From the pen of Speranza's son the renowned literary man
And though he died as a pauper in Paris from Dublin far away
Through his humorous quotes and insightful writings his legend lives today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Like That Bite of Edgar's
I like that bite of Edgar's.
That one that takes flight in the night.
To rest on chimneys...
Leaving a darkened shadow
Cast by a glowing full moon night!
I like that bite of Edgar's.
A troubled brilliance seeking escape.
From a mind that has suffered
From his own and others' heartbreaks.
And to sit alone with thoughts to write.
Allowing a forbidden bitterness,
The head will not forgive!
And to deliver a quick liquor shot.
To ease a pain felt.
But no one will believe!
Not from the words left behind,
One reads.
I like that bite of Edgar's.
After he is read.
And the gloom in Edgar's head remains...
He sustains,
With a style...
Not easily forgotten.
I like that bite of Edgar Poe's.
And I know now...
He had to numb to succumb,
To chance a romance he was after...
That flew away one day,
Into the darkened night!
And then...
Death seemed to have come knocking.
Knocking!
To repeat unrelentless-ly!
Dedicated to:
Edgar Allan Poe
'To feel such anguish within.
Touched by diversed experiences,
that brings a clarity to one's life.
So emotionally vivid...
One can only reach out to this world
in the form of writing to express the depths of our pain
and unaccepted sorrows we keep inside of us.
That undescripted anguish that torments, unresolved.'
~lsp~
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Land Of Edgar Allan
Remember The Raven?
We do around here.
The Domino too, upon sunset appears.
A fallen man's point.
An introvert's harbor.
Twas the land of Edgar Allan.
Need I say more?
E'er fouls, walks, run.
Not Edgar's Raven, the orange and black one.
Black-eyed Susan's - my back yard.
The dock of the bay - my front door.
Twas the land of Edgar Allan, hon
E'er, I say more.
One Has To Wonder Why
John Clare was the English language greatest poet of Nature
So much of Nature's ways the man did know
But he died in a mental institution
In Northampton asylum near to fifteen decades ago
Just like Vincent Van Gogh the Dutchman a World renowned artist
His paintings are sold for millions today
Yet he died poor and mentally unstable
At his own hands in quite a tragic way
William Cowper was a literary genius
A man who too was mentally unwell
He never did enjoy the fame he earned
And life for him it was an Earthly hell
James Clarence Mangan is the National Bard of Ireland
He died in mid life at forty six years old
A poor Dubliner in Ireland's years of famine
His death was of consumption we are told
Janet Frame was a great New Zealand writer
But she was seldom happy in her mind
Her life story is not a happy story
Though her equal would be very hard to find
Stephen Foster was America's greatest songwriter
Of him true greatness cannot be denied
But fame in his lifetime failed to make him happy
And 'twas of alcoholic poisoning that he died
Paul Robeson one of the World's greatest singers
He died a very disappointed man
A victim of politics and racism
Yet his fame on it does not have a time span.
Poverty, madness and racism not a barrier to greatness
As the lives of many greats does testify
But in their lives some for their genius not rewarded
And why this should be one has to wonder why?
poem by Francis Duggan
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Amongst Wealth And Fame
Amongst wealth and fame there is great poverty
With such things should not happen here most would agree
A poor homeless bloke with only a mattress for a bed
On the embankment under a railway underpass for six months lay dead.
Under the railway underpass he died where he lay
For months undiscoverd that seems sad to say
A man in his forties one without a friend
He lived a sad life and his was a sad end.
In Melbourne Victoria this must be a lie
In such a wealthy City people of neglect never die?
But the facts tell us differently and i must make it clear
That it is not of fiction i am writing of here.
Some of the less kind will tell you we live and die as we choose
That he was one of those blokes destined to lose
And though they are entitled for to air their views
They seem to make light of what is quite sad news.
Six months he was dead when his remains were found
Amongst wealth and fame poverty does abound
It is not for one like him that you should pray
For if there is a heaven he is there today.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I wonder what it means about American literary culture and its transmission when I consider the number of American poets who earn their living teaching creative writing in universities. I've ended up doing that myself.
quote by Marilyn Hacker
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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looking Back An Overview Of A Life
Today, I turned forty three
So I look back or look ahead
Back to what I was or ahead to what I'll be
But not too far because then I'd be dead
I decided to look back then ttavel ahead
Exploring my most pivotal years
Remembering things people had said
Examining my deepest fears
Childhood, years of innocence and wonder
Everything to a child's eyes is new
Til one day, innocence is torn asunder
As surely as the sky will be blue
Teenage years, a sense of immortality
At such an age death is not even imagined
Doing everything with such youthful vitality
Not knowing the end is already predestined
Twenties and Thirties maturity is reached
And things just seem to fall into place
Your innocence, long since breached
Is remembered in the look on a child's face
In your Forties attaining middle age
Deciding that maturity looks good on you
Graying hair, against which you don't rage
You feel it's distinguished, how very true
poem by Harry J. Couchon Jr
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Sleep, those little slices of death; Oh how I loathe them.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sleep, those little slices of death, how I loathe them.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Shopping Without Edgar Allan
We will always shopping go
Without Edgar Allan Poe.
We go shopping, hopping, hopping,
From this store to that.
Edgar Allan was a Poe
Who never ever had to go
Shopping.
O.K., and so perhaps I lied,
And so perhaps his lovely bride,
Annabelle Lee and he
Went shopping, like
The rest of us.
poem by Fred Babbin
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The best years are the forties; after fifty a man begins to deteriorate, but in the forties he is at the maximum of his villainy.
quote by H.L. Mencken
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Oh Mr Yeats
Oh Yeats you wrote of this terrible beauty
And in your great poem you glorified death
But it's been proved that even suicide cases
At their last moment will struggle for breath.
How can you serve your Country by dying for it?
To me that's just a heroic suicide
Perhaps Ireland's greatest was Daniel O Connell
And it was of natural causes that he died.
Those men who led the nineteen sixteen rising
Were brave that from them can't be took away
They died because they fought for love of Ireland
But life for love too big a price to pay.
And tell me what is fame and what is glory?
So many people only live for fame
In hope that after death they'll be remembered
And that others will pay homage to their name.
Oh Mr Yeats you said in death there's beauty
But I cannot agree with what you've said
I would take wealth and fame whilst I'm still living
For such will be useless to me when I'm dead.
poem by Francis Duggan
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To vilify a great man is the readiest way in which a little man can himself attain greatness.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sketch of Lord Byron's Life
"Lord Byron" was an Englishman
A poet I believe,
His first works in old England
Was poorly received.
Perhaps it was "Lord Byron's" fault
And perhaps it was not.
His life was full of misfortunes,
Ah, strange was his lot.
The character of "Lord Byron"
Was of a low degree,
Caused by his reckless conduct,
And bad company.
He sprung from an ancient house,
Noble, but poor, indeed.
His career on earth, was marred
By his own misdeeds.
Generous and tender hearted,
Affectionate by extreme,
In temper he was wayward,
A poor "Lord" without means;
Ah, he was a handsome fellow
With great poetic skill,
His great intellectual powers
He could use at his will.
He was a sad child of nature,
Of fortune and of fame;
Also sad child to society,
For nothing did he gain
But slander and ridicule,
Throughout his native land.
Thus the "poet of the passions,"
Lived, unappreciated, man.
Yet at the age of 24,
"Lord Byron" then had gained
The highest, highest, pinacle
Of literary fame.
Ah, he had such violent passions
They was beyond his control,
Yet the public with its justice,
Sometimes would him extol.
Sometimes again "Lord Byron"
Was censured by the press,
Such obloquy, he could not endure,
So he done what was the best.
He left his native country,
This great unhappy man;
The only wish he had, "'tis said,"
He might die, sword in hand.
He had joined the Grecian Army;
This man of delicate frame;
And there he died in a distant land,
And left on earth his fame.
"Lord Byron's" age was 36 years,
Then closed the sad career,
Of the most celebrated "Englishman"
Of the nineteenth century.
poem by Julia A Moore
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Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have great faith in fools; self-confidence, my friends call it.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I have great faith in fools; self-confidence my friends call it.
quote by Edgar Allan Poe
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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