The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe

I was reciting this to myself because I wasn't thinking, and it was sort of stuck in my head all of a sudden,
and I was saying it all dramatic, youknow, scary-like, when I realized how good the poem was.
Imean, before, having to memorize all what, 18 or something stanzas and all, it seemed so dreadfully boring and interminable, but I realized, just now, how good it is.
not as in the bad vs. good sort of good, but well written sort of good.
The descriptions give you that eerie feeling, the tone, and GAHHH, just it is good.
And for those of you who are wondering what the raven is, or who this Edgar Allan Poe is, then you really need to know some poetry and stories and famous authors/poets/depressedpeople.

So here's the poem, because it is not anymore against the copyright rules to post Edgar Allan Poe's works, and anyhow, he's so famous, he doesn't really need a bibliography. (He's dead, by the way. A while back.)

The Raven
By Edgar Allan Poe

(Yes, it's pretty long.)

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 someone 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 forevermore.


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 the darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals 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, something 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 the 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 that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further 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 sad soul 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."

Thus 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 lamplight gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamplight gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!


Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by seraphim whose footfalls 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, O 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 lamplight 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!


Yes. Creepy.
Edgar Allan Poe was not an ordinary chubby man who drinks his coffee while reading the daily newspaper every morning, he didn't walk around cheerfully whistling a song of his own.
He was a sad sort of guy.
Imean, what do you expect, one death after another?
Who knows how he died anyway.
But he did die in this way--he died with honour from the literary world.

Poetry Mix Collection #3`

These are what I made in school. But some of them are pretty good, so might as well share it.

Untitled
If you were just some ten yards tall, you’d need no ride to school.

Your teardrop splashing on the ground would make a swimming pool.
Your crumb of cake would be our feast,
And last us seven days at least,
Though you yourself would seem a beast,
If you were ten yards tall.

If you were really ten yards tall, you’d never fit a door,
And it would be impossible to go down to the store.
Our bed too small to be your bed,
Your strand of hair some yards of thread,
If we were stepped on we’d be dead
If you were ten yards tall.

A roaring blast would seem as just a little faint sound hum,
You couldn’t hug your mom ‘cause you’d just squeeze her ‘till she’s numb.
And writing would just be a fright,
The ink splattered ‘cause held too tight,
(So you should never try rewrite--
this poem’s just way too long).



Original poem “One inch tall” by Shel Silverstein

If you were only one inch tall, you'd ride a worm to school.
The teardrop of a crying ant would be your swimming pool.
A crumb of cake would be a feast
And last you seven days at least,
A flea would be a frightening beast
If you were one inch tall.

If you were only one inch tall, you'd walk beneath the door,
And it would take about a month to get down to the store.
A bit of fluff would be your bed,
You'd swing upon a spider's thread,
And wear a thimble on your head
If you were one inch tall.

You'd surf across the kitchen sink upon a stick of gum.
You couldn't hug your mama, you'd just have to hug her thumb.
You'd run from people's feet in fright,
To move a pen would take all night,
(This poem took fourteen years to write--
'Cause I'm just one inch tall).




(GAHH COPY PASTING DOESN'T WORK. sorry, for now it's only one poem. stay tuned for the next batch of fresh home-made poems!)
;D

Poetry Mix (Collection) #2

So today, I wrote some poems.

I don't like poems that have those exact rhythms and the iambic pentameter or whatever.

because honestly, those sound so cheesy and simple.

I like free forming, poems that are just how they are. No rhythm. Just meaning.

So here goes.


For the first two poems, I made them all into one paragraph, as you can see...

Poem 1:
Life is like a roller coaster. Get on the ride, with ups and downs and side to side, soaring low and soaring high, reach into the sky... a quick ride, and when you get off, you're not sure if it's time to leave, when the ride has already ended.

Poem 2:
Look at the flowers sparkling in the sun. Look at the flowers swaying in the sun. Look at the petals swirling in the sun. Look at the fresh smell in the air. Look at the flowers smiling in the sun. Then look at the flowers,, burrowed under, hidden under, the snow.

Poem 3:
Life is a trap you can't escape.
But don't try to, you'll never escape.

Poem 4:
Believe
Believe in the sky.
Believe in the sun.
Believe in magic.
Believe in love.
Believe in hope.
Believe in hugs.
Believe in poetry.
Believe in music.
Believe in learning.
But never believe in hatred.

Poem 5:
Take a petal of a flower.
See its beauty.
Understand its beauty.
Take a part of a sunset.
See it's beauty.
Understand its beauty.
Take a child's mind, her soul.
See its beauty.
Understand it, too.

Peom 6:
Believe in colors.
Believe in gifts.
Believe in laughs.
Believe in love.
Believe in happiness,
believe in doves,
believe in flowers.
Believe in luck.
Believe in hugs,
believe ind reams,
believe in safety,
believe in promises,
believe in People.

Poem 7:
This poem explains the horror of war and the hope in children to fix it, which is always burned into ash.

Bombs fill the air.
Smoke fills the lungs.
hatred fills the mind.
Fear fills the children.
What has this world become?

Born to live,
born to prosper,
born to succeed,
born to kill.
What has this world become?

Shouts fill the air.
Suffocation fills the lungs.
Death fills the mind.
Hope fills the children.

Huddled in a corner,
just a little seed of hope.
A little ointment,
and a bandaid,
and a want to heal.
In every child's hope,
future,
peace,
innocence.

Ruined.

Poem 8:
From now on, the poems, I played with the spacing and the placing. I don't know if it'll show up right on the computer, but spaced it and placed it differently in my notebook.

In a field of flowers, of thorn hatred roses,
is a little flower seed.
Who knows what kind?
It grows to a bud.
green amongst the bloodred, the bloodred with thorns, old,
    yet emitting eerie beauty.
But this bud,
  with simple,
          innocent,
                    beauty.
It sits.
It shuns the roses, with its simplicity.
The way it is more free,
the way it has hope,
it might grow into
         a daisy, a
              tulip, a
                  crysanthemum.
But once it does grow into whatever it is,
its beauty dies,
it loses simplicity,
the beauty,
it gets shunned by the roses,
until it withers
     to the ground,
            regretting,
                   dying,,,...
                         gone.

Poem 9:

(hmm, don't try this at home   [;        )
Peer into the deep abyss,
mind void of hope,
of love.
Mind full of hatred,
of scorn.
Cuts and bruises
in the mind.
Loneliness
in the mind.

Peer into the deep abyss,
peer into the dark,
    red,
         evil eyes of
               Death.
Whisper words of hopelessness.
And fall into
      the peering,
              dark,
                    red,
                         evil eyes of
                               Death.

Poem 10:
Every mind sunken into a deep pool of Reality.
When first born, the mind bobs at the shore,
     taking gasps of
           imagination
                 and magic and
                         hope.
But as the mind gets older,
     it gets heavier,
           it gets less simple,
                it loses imagination
                         and magic and
                                  hope as it
                                           sinks
                                                    down
                                                                          down
                                                                                                down.

Poem 11:
Choking underwater
    suffocating
          losing the air,
               sinking . . .
                     down  .  .  .
                                down
                                          down
                                                  under the sea level of
                                                           individuality.
                sinking . . .
                      down  .  .  .

                                down

                                          down 

                                                   under influence.

Poem 12:

Grab that life saver,

     the little tube

           bobbing,

               floating.

Before you sink.

     underwater.

          suffocate.

               Die.

Some of them are slightly violent, as the reality of it goes, some of them are thoughtful.

As my favorite line goes, "Don't worry, be happy!"

oh and my other one is "Failure isn't failure; it's the path to succeed." but that's beside the point.

Poetry Mix #1

Okay, here goes.
I decided to make a new type of label thing.
You know,
how ITTY is "Inside Tips To You", and the "Amazity of the Day" and HLD (Hilarious Laugh of the Day), and IceCreamScoop (bits of my life), and Various Viewpoints... so added to that list is Poetry Mix.

Pretty self explanatory as when it comes to what it actually does.
Mix of poetry.

how itriguing.

So the description of this blog is already a poem:
There's no recipe to life. So just go with the flow, do what you know, stay away from staying low, and find the happiness below.
Here's the poem:
Life's a roller coaster. It's a crazy ride, has its ups and downs and side-to-side, the roller coaster just this wide, going to places with nothing to hide, and you soaring there, up high, having the fun of your life. That's life. Live it like a roller coaster. Nevous getting on, reluctant to get off at the end.

EDIT:

Okay, I know this font color will 'stand out' and all, but I'd just like to add for my own self:
These sort of poems were inspired from a book called "The Orange Houses" by Paul Griffin.

HLD-- Duck Song/Scene

I don't know why I like this, I don't know how I like this, and I'm not sure whether I even like it or not.
The song's just catchy.
It's called the Duck Song, and it is likely you have heard it before because to what I see it has gazillions of views. Who knows?

Anyhow, here it is:

And it's kind of creepy and... it has a Duck Song II and Duck Song III, I think. (pretty sure about the Duck Song II, but I'm not sure about the Duck Song III. You should try finding out.)

I was singing it all day on Sunday.
"And he said to the man, running the stand. Bom bom bom bom bom, Got any graapppeess?"

...
I'll leave you there for today.

oh. And. I must share a funny short clip with you.
Only it's in your imagination. Meaning you have to imagine and make the scene inside your head.
Here's the script:

There is a German Coast Guard. He is a grim faced, lonely Coast Guard who is guarding __(whatever he's guarding)___. The German Coast Guard is currently extremely bored. His eyes are halfway drooping, and he's nearly bored out of his mind. No, let me fix that. He is bored out of his mind. So there he's standing, with his gun and all, walkie talkie, belt, stuff (I think stuff covers all the material, don't you think?).
Extreme silence is spread from miles beyond, as he's starting to wish something to happen.
He is boredly kicking a rock nearby.
Cricket... cricket... Crickets chirrup in the background to show the extreme silence and the irony and boredom of this German Coast Guard during war.
Suddenly, his walkie talkie buzzes on. And through static, he can hear shooting and cannons and screaming in the background. It's a very small noise, because the walkie-talkie isn't the number one best type.

And... jump cut.
The scene jumps to a loud, rambunctious (I have to look up that word...) scene in which an American Naval General is on his vessel, which is starting to sink because of the endless attacks from the enemy, and the cannons and gun sounds are deafening. And the screaming and shouting adds to the noise, chaos, and horror. Water is filling up to the general's knees now, and the vessel is rocking. He's holding his walkie-talkie, screaming into it, at the top of his lungs, shouting "MAYDAY! MAYDAY! WE'RE SINKING! WE'RE SINKING! WE'RE SINKING!"

And... jump cut.
The scene jumps back to the German Coast Guard. So what you should hear is Loud Yelling and Chaos, then all a sudden, cut off.
Cricket... Cricket...
The German Coast Guard is staring at his walkie-talkie, which is squealing "mayday! mayday! we're sinking! we're sinking! we're sinking!" in a small-ish sort of voice. Really really small compared to the reality of it.
And so the German Coast Guard stares at it, and thinks for a moment.
He picks his walkie-talkie up off his belt, and stops.
Cricket... Cricket...
"Vat are you sinking avout?"