"The Raven" by Edgar Allan Poe

{Author Bio}
Edgar Allen Poe was born on January 19, 1809 and died on October 7, 1849. He was an American author, poet, editor, and literary critic, and was considered part of the American Romantic Movement. 

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,

Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore—

    While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,

As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.

“’Tis some visitor,” I muttered, “tapping at my chamber door—

            Only this and nothing more.”

    Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December;

And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.

    Eagerly I wished the morrow;—vainly I had sought to borrow

    From my books surcease of sorrow—sorrow for the lost Lenore—

For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

            Nameless here for evermore.

    And the silken, sad, uncertain rustling of each purple curtain

Thrilled me—filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;

    So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating

    “’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door—

Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door;—

            This it is and nothing more.”

    Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,

“Sir,” said I, “or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;

    But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,

    And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,

That I scarce was sure I heard you”—here I opened wide the door;—

            Darkness there and nothing more.

    Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,

Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;

    But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,

    And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, “Lenore?”

This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, “Lenore!”—

            Merely this and nothing more.

    Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,

Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.

    “Surely,” said I, “surely that is something at my window lattice;

      Let me see, then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore—

Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;—

            ’Tis the wind and nothing more!”

    Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,

In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore;

    Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;

    But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door—

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door—

            Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,

By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,

“Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,” I said, “art sure no craven,

Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore—

Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,

Though its answer little meaning—little relevancy bore;

    For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being

    Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door—

Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,

            With such name as “Nevermore.”

    But the Raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only

That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.

    Nothing farther then he uttered—not a feather then he fluttered—

    Till I scarcely more than muttered “Other friends have flown before—

On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.”

            Then the bird said “Nevermore.”

    Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,

“Doubtless,” said I, “what it utters is its only stock and store

    Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster

    Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore—

Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore

            Of ‘Never—nevermore’.”

    But the Raven still beguiling all my fancy into smiling,

Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird, and bust and door;

    Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking

    Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore—

What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore

            Meant in croaking “Nevermore.”

    This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing

To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;

    This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining

    On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,

But whose velvet-violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,

            She shall press, ah, nevermore!

    Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer

Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.

    “Wretch,” I cried, “thy God hath lent thee—by these angels he hath sent thee

    Respite—respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore;

Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!—

Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,

    Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted—

    On this home by Horror haunted—tell me truly, I implore—

Is there—is there balm in Gilead?—tell me—tell me, I implore!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore—

    Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,

    It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore—

Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    “Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!” I shrieked, upstarting—

“Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!

    Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!

    Leave my loneliness unbroken!—quit the bust above my door!

Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!”

            Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

    And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting

On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;

    And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,

    And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;

And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor

            Shall be lifted—nevermore!

Edgar Allan Poe's "The Raven" is a poem that consists of lines with eight pairs of stressed syllables followed by an unstressed syllable. This structure gives the poem an eerie tone to. One that is mysterious and ominous. The speaker is curious of that Raven at the door and we eventually find out that it could be his dead wife haunting him. At the beginning the pace is quick and it has a rhyme to it-an introduction to what is going on. The pace slows down when the raven starts knocking at the door and the tone becomes cautious with choppy phrases. All of the lines contain sixteen syllables except for the last line of each stanza, which only contains seven. In these lines, the word "more" is highly emphasized increasing the intensity of the raven knocking at the door. It starts with "nothing more", then goes to "evermore", and finally ends with "nevermore" strenghening the idea that he is grieving his wife. The speaker's mood has an affect on the the switches in pace in the poem. When he becomes angry at the raven, the pace of the poem picks up. 

"The Leap" by James Dickey

{Author Bio}
James Dickey was an American poet and novelist  who was appointed the eighteenth Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry to the library of congress in 1966. He also recieved the Order of the South Award. He was born on February 2, 1923 and died on January 19,1997.

The only thing I have of Jane MacNaughton                                  

Is one instant of a dancing-class dance.                                  

She was the fastest runner in the seventh grade,                                             

My scrapbook says, even when boys were beginning

To be as big as the girls.                                                                        

But I do not have her running in my mind,

Though Frances Lane is there, Agnes Fraser,

Fat Betty Lou Black in the boys-against-girls

Relays we ran at recess:  she must have run                                 

Like the other girls, with her skirts tucked up                                         

So they would be like bloomers,

But I cannot tell; that part of her is gone.

What I do have is when she came,

With the hem of skirt where it should be

For a young lady, into the annual dance                                                 

Of the dancing class we all hated, and with a light

Grave leap, jumped up and touched the end

Of one of the paper-ring decorations

To see if she could reach it.  She could,

And reached me now as well, hanging in my mind                                  

From a brown chain of brittle paper, thin

And muscular, wide-mouthed, eager to prove

Whatever it proves when you leap

In a new dress, a new womanhood, among the boys

Whom you easily left in the dust                                                            

Of the passionless playground.  If I said I saw

In the paper where Jane MacNaughton Hill,

Mother of four, leapt to her death from a window

Of a downtown hotel, and that her body crushed in

The top of a parked taxi, and that I held                                                            

Without trembling a picture of her lying cradled

In that papery steel as though lying in the grass,

One shoe idly off, arms folded across her breast,

I would not believe myself.  I would say

The convenient thing, that it was a bad dream                                        

Of Maturity, to see that eternal process

Most obsessively wrong with the world

Come out of her light, earth-spurning feet

Grown heavy:  would say that in the dusty heels                        

Of the playground some boy who did not depend                                              

On speed of foot, caught and betrayed her.

Jane, stay where you are in my first mind:

It was odd in that school, at that dance,

I and the other slow-footed yokels sat in corners

Cutting rings out of drawing paper                                                         

Before you leapt in your new dress

And touched the end of something I began,

Above the couples struggling on the floor,

New men and women clutching at each other

And prancing foolishly as bears:  hold on                                               

To that ring I made for you, Jane --

My feet are nailed to the ground

By dust I swallowed thirty years ago --

While I examine my hands.

In James Dickey's poem, the "leap"symbolizes courage, confidence, maturity, and achievement. This vision that the speaker has of Jane reaching up to touch the paper chain represents all the attributes that he admires in Jane and all the characteristics he would like to obtain also. Jane was different from her other classmates and the speaker saw this. He admired her for that. We see the symbolisim of maturity when the speaker states,"eager to prove whatever it proves when you leap in a new dress, a new womanhood". This pivotal moment is similar to a another moment in Jane's life but is much more tragic. Instead of whimisically leaping to touch a paper chain, she leaps out of her apartment building. The leap as a child was an upwards leap to curiosity and astonishment. The leap of her death was a downwards leap and must of been a leap of despair. It is ironic how different the leaps are. The first leap symbolizes aspiration while the second leap symbolizes despair and frustration. The speaker wishes to only remember the first leap. Jane was, to him, a dream from the moment he saw her at the dance. The picture of her "lying cradled in that papery steel" is a nightmare. 

The chain also symbolizes the one connection they had with each other. He never got to approach her and give her his ring that he made for her but she reached to touch the chain that he had made and that represents linkage. It links them together. It is ironic because chains usually hold things down but Jane leaps to touch the chain. In her second leap though, something must had "chained" her down which caused her to leap to her death. 

"This is Just to Say" by William Carlos Williams

{Author Bio}
He was born in Rutherford, New Jersey on September 17,1883. He was a famous poet during the Imagist Movement and was known for his new techniques in writing and his subjects centering around the daily lives of common people.

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

There is not much depth or meaning behind the words this peom. Its very straightfoward and uses simple language that allows the reader to make their own assumption on what the poem is about or referring too. The title of the peom says it all-"This is just to say". The author is merely just saying whats on his mind. The main subject is the plum-simple and plain just like the language. The language is short and sweet. The author uses the words sweet and cold to describe the plums. He doesnt go on to elaborate on their description and it contributes to the easy going persona of the poem. The speaker doesnt really feel bad about the fact that he is eating the plum that is not really his. The word "probably" emphasizes this idea. He is kinda like "eh, he wont be too mad I guess". Very nonchalant and matter of factly. The short lines also indicate the careless attitude. The word icebox is also very "straightforward". The short description non elaborate diction helps give the impression that he ate the plum without any real hesistation and doesnt feel that bad about it because it was a good plum. It feels like this would be the type of note my sister would leave me in the kitchen after she left for school. Just a quick note on a piece of paper ripped out of a notebook. It is quick, to the point, and nonchalant with simple, bland language.

"The Night Wind" by Emily Bronte

{Author Bio}
Emily was an English novelist and poet, best remembered for her only novel, Wuthering Heights, now considered a classic of English literature. Emily was the third eldest of the four surviving Brontë siblings, between the youngest Anne and her brother Branwell. She wrote under the pen name Ellis Bell.

In summer's mellow midnight,
A cloudless moon shone through
Our open parlour window,
And rose-trees wet with dew.

I sat in silent musing;
The soft wind waved my hair;
It told me heaven was glorious,
And sleeping earth was fair.

I needed not its breathing
To bring such thoughts to me;
But still it whispered lowly,
How dark the woods will be!

"The thick leaves in my murmur
Are rustling like a dream,
And all their myriad voices
Instinct with spirit seem."

I said, "Go, gentle singer,
Thy wooing voice is kind:
But do not think its music
Has power to reach my mind.

"Play with the scented flower,
The young tree's supple bough,
And leave my human feelings
In their own course to flow."

The wanderer would not heed me;
Its kiss grew warmer still.
"O come!" it sighed so sweetly;
"I'll win thee 'gainst thy will.

"Were we not friends from childhood?
Have I not loved thee long?
As long as thou, the solemn night,
Whose silence wakes my song.

"And when thy heart is resting
Beneath the church-aisle stone,
I shall have time for mourning,
And THOU for being alone."

The time is summer and the moon is out so it it night time. The sky is cloudless and you can almost feel that summer heat and humidity but also the coolness of a summer night. "In Summer's mellow midnight, a cloudless moon shone through"-The author's description of the moon is very gentle and soft so the speaker is most likely in a place of contentment. She is almost in a dreamlike environment, alluding to the fact that it is nighttime. Although there is only one person in this poem, the night wind is acting like a second speaker telling her that "Heaven was glorious, And sleeping Earth was fair." She is alone, staring off into the night. The night wind represents her imagination and we, as the readers, are getting a glimpse of her dreams and inner conflicts. As the speaker sits by her window, her gaze is fixed on the night (a reference to her inner desires and fantasies) and she is falling into a trance — she is daydreaming – and she becomes part of the natural struggle between fantasy and reality. The speaker knows that is foolish to have imaginations. She wants to the Night Wind (her imagination) to leave because she wants to resist the temptations her imagination. She tells her imagination to go away and play with the scented flowers and the trees ("And leave my human feelings")

"Paper Matches" by Paulette Jiles

{Author Bio}
Paulette Jiles was born on April 4th, 1943. She is an American born-Canadian poet and novelist. Born in Salem, Missouri, she was educated at the University of Illinois in Spanish Literature. Paulette moved to Canada in 1969 and married Jim Johnson. She has 3 stepchildren and 6 grandchildren. She currently lives in San Antonia Texas. 

"Paper Matches"

My aunts washed dishes while the uncles
squirted each other on the lawn with
garden hoses. Why are we in here,
I said, and they are out there?
That's the way it is,
said Aunt Hetty, the shriveled-up one.
I have the rages that small animals have,
being small, being animal.
Written on me was a message,
"At Your Service,"
like a book of paper matches.
One by one we were taken out
and struck.
We come bearing supper,
our heads on fire.

Jiles uses the simile-turned-metaphor of the the matches to convey the the speaker's anger and frustration of the gender roles that were enforced when she was a child. The matches symbolize feebleness and weakness. "I have the rage the small animals have, being small, being animal.”. The speaker, as a young girl, is filled with anger and frustration. The speaker's tone at this point still resembles an innocent child but you can hear and feel the grudging tone and the anger building up inside her. The Speaker is dumbfounded at the mere fact that they (the women) have to stay inside doing all the work while the grown men get to play around outside. The pronoun, "we", that is used in this poem is quite significant. Rather than saying "I", the pronoun "we" generalizes the women and makes them a whole. It's not just the women in this family that do all the work, it is all the women in society at this time. The attitude of the speaker shifts when she says, "I have the rages that small animals have..." The tone goes from being of an innocent child questioning the ways of society to the child growing up and actually realizing and feeling the division between gender roles. The speaker's tone expresses her disapproval with the social norms and treatment of women of the time. “One by one we were taken out and struck. We come bearing supper, our heads on fire.” The speaker's tone here shifts to sadness. The speaker feels despair and hopelessness. They do what they have to do because there is no other choice. This line also represents personification. 

"Those Winter Sundays" by Robert Hayden

Author's Biography

Robert Hayden was an African American poet who was born in 1913 and died in 1980. He was a poet and a professor. Hayden studied poetry at the University of Michigan, and went on to teaching at both Michigan University and Fisk University. Hayden continued to write and publish poetry, becoming one of the nation's foremost African-American poets.

"Those Winter Sundays"

Sundays too my father got up early

and put his clothes on in the blueback cold

then with cracked hands that ached

from labor in the weekday weather made

banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.

When the rooms were warm, he'd call,

and slowly I would rise and dress,

fearing the chronic angers of that house,

Speaking indifferently to him,

who had driven out the cold

and polished my good shoes as well.

What did I know, what did I know

of love's austere and lonely offices?

The speaker's tone is very nostolgic, sorrowful, and regretful. The speaker recalls all the wonderful things his father did for him and all the times he never even thanked him. The speaker uses powerful imagery such as putting his clothes on in the "blackblue cold" and his "cracked hands that ached from labor". He regrets not taking the time to notice all the generous things his father did for him and the all the hard work he did around the house to provide for his family. You can hear the regret in the speaker's voice when he calls out "What did I know, what did I know". The speaker even bluntly acknowledges the fact that "No one ever thanked him". The tone is nostalgic because you can feel the despair as he reminisces on the memories of his dad getting up early every morning and working hard until sun down. In the first line when the speaker says, "Sundays too", he is implying that even on the day that is commonly put aside as a day of rest, his father still got up early and selflessly got to work. 

This poem’s tone has affected me in certain ways. It has forced me to really think about my relationship with my father and to reflect on how often I take the time to recognize all the work my father puts in to provide for his family. The speaker, also the son, is revealing the regret and despair he feels through the sorrowful attitude he displays through the intense imagery and the questions he asks himself. 

"A Found Poem" by Maxine Kumin

Whenever I caught him down in hew stall, I'd approach.
At first he jumped up the instant he heard me slide
the bolt. Then I could get the door open while
he stayed lying down, and I'd go in on my hands 
and knees and crawl over to him so that
I wouldn't appear so threatening. It took
six or eight months before I could simply walk in
and sit with him, but I needed that kind of trust.

I kept him on a long rein to encourage him 
to stretch out his neck and back. I danced with him
over ten or fifteen acres of  fields with a lot
of flowing from one transistion to another.
What I've learned is how to take the indirect route.
That final day I felt I could have cut
the bridle off, he went so well on his own.

                           

                                                                        ~Maxine Kumin

The main theme Maxine expresses in this poem is the idea of trust and letting go. She relates writing a poem to letting a young horse go free. As much as she wants to keep holding on to it and nurture it, she knows she must trust her instincts and let it run away on its own. The same goes for writing poetry. Maxine is implying that too often poets hang on to their creations too long because they believe there is always something that they can fix. That is true; there is always going to be something that you can tweak but there comes a point when you must trust yourself that it is complete. In the seventh and eighth stanza, she states, "It took six or eight months before I could simply walk in and sit with him, but I needed that kind of trust". This is implying that she didn't even feal comfortable reading her own writings at first and the caution she displays in the first six stanzas displays the same caution she has when writing her poems. When she states,"I danced with him over ten or fifteen acres of  fields", she means that she took the "indirect route". She didnt follow a specific order when writing. It was spontaneuous. After trusting herself, she cut the bridle off and "he went so well on his own". We can infer that she finally put away her pencil and let the world see what she had written. Many people are going to interprete the meaning of poems differently just like some people may have interpreted this poem different than I did. What is important to know that is that when writing poetry, it is okay to go about it in a slow, cautious manner and to truly take the time to make it beautiful, but it is also important to not dwell on it so much and let people create their own meaning out of it.